


A Temper That Never Tires

by foona



Category: British Actor RPF, RPF - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Blasphemous, Bondage, Explicit Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kinky, Manipulation, Master/Servant, Romance, Slow Build, Suspense, Temperature Play, Victorian England, historical fiction - Freeform, loosely based on crimson peak, pain play, potentially upsetting ending, slight abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foona/pseuds/foona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving to London during the industrial era meant slaving at the cotton mill. You are a young and naive country girl dreading the future that looms ahead. When a wealthy gentleman offers you a job as his housemaid, suddenly you thought everything changes for the better. Or does it? Little did you know, this was not a regular job at a regular house, nor was Mr. Hiddleston a regular man. Is he really the merchant he claims to be? Or does a darker reality loom in his past... and future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Situation Being

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this historical fanfic, and if you find any factual errors please tell me! Comment, kudos or bookmark to show me that you want this to continue <3 I will probably update pretty quickly so don't worry about that.
> 
> The reader is currently 16, will be 17 along the fic and Tom is 34

_“Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts”_

\- Charles Dickens

 

**London, 1856**

The dark encroaching twilight seems to be swallowing you whole, and you are tumbling deeper and deeper into a deep abyss. London is not a nice place to be, not in 1856, or ever, to you. The thick smog rising from the factory chimneys creates an ominous canopy above the heads of the scurrying women, men and children. The wet and disgusting pavement under you seems to be shaking violently from the masses of people.

You have just arrived here an hour ago, via the train. It was scary and exciting at the same time, rail transport is a newfound technology and you, a humble country girl having the opportunity to ride in one was absolutely exhilarating. Your cold hands feel around for the few shillings left in your pocket, after the train ride. The sudden tinkling of the coins hitting the ground snaps you out of your reverie, as you try to desperately reach for them. Unfortunately, a rather large gentleman gets in the way of your hands and the coins seem to disappear under him.

Let’s remind ourselves why you are in the position shall we. Exactly twenty-three days ago, your father had summoned you into the small-shared family bedroom of the brick cottage your family lives in. He told you that you would be working in a cotton mill in London, where his brother’s daughters work at. After much disagreement and tears, you had finally agreed to his wishes, for your father was old and frail. You had heard about the new trend in opening cotton mills. Businessmen would invest all their money into a large factory, where children suffocated and women’s fingers bled. The small town your family lives in lies a few kilometers away from Birmingham, the next major city around. You had to ride horseback with your brother to reach the city and from there, you were able to catch a train.

Parting had been very hard. You were lived in that small town with your family all of your life, without formal education aside from being able to read simple books. Your father had insisted you learned how to read a little, and he enlisted the help of the local clergyman to help you with that. All your life you had believed that you would be married off to the local baker’s son when you were seventeen. But instead, two weeks before your seventeenth birthday, you are here, in London, waiting in a line of prospective employees at the cotton mill.

“Hello miss, where are you from?” A small, pudgy woman asked from behind you.

“Oh it’s a small town near Birmingham. And you?"

“I’m from Ireland myself miss, my husband just passed so my children and I wanted somewhere new to go,” the woman solemnly answered, staring at the puddle-filled ground.

“I am so very sorry for your loss ma’am,” you politely replied, not wanting to continue the conversation any longer.

Thankfully, the woman stopped talking to you. It seems terrible that you want her to stop conversing, but right now, you are in no mood to even be alive. Something about the unforeseeable future that lies ahead seems so dark and eerie. You tried positive reinforcements, telling yourself that God will protect you and your path, for even bad things could serve as a valuable life-lesson. Your mind began wandering to various checkpoints in your life. Would you get married here? Live in a small room with your husband and children in the slums of London? Perhaps will you die in childbirth… oh no!

You had heard stories of how dangerous and immoral London is. Despite it being the center of culture and development in Europe, you couldn’t help wondering about the damning tales of prostitutes, murders, drunkards and child slavery. Everything around you seems to be falling apart, so why shouldn’t you as well? That’s it, the prospects simply do not look good at this point.

An hour passed, and your fingertips were freezing. You had not brought gloves, for your father assured you that you will be provided some at the mill. As for accommodations, you will be temporarily housing with your father’s brother, but as he is destitute as well, you better find your own lodgings soon. Your eyes darted around the city streets, looking for something to distract you from the cold. Light coming from a small wrought iron window caught your eyes, so you left your place in line and wandered towards it. Turns out it’s a bakery. The scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air and attacked your senses. Attacked would be the most appropriate adjective, for your stomach grumbles angrily and your mouth salivates.

You press your nose against the cold glass and watch as a well-dressed woman hands a small loaf of bread to her son. The store looks warm and beautiful, it reminds you of home. Your fingers feel around your empty pocket and with all your will power, you wish for a coin or two to appear. Suddenly, a group of loud women enter the shop and practically fill up every inch of it. The shopkeeper looks absolutely swamped, and you see an opportunity to snatch a loaf of bread that sits near the door. No one will know certainly. Quietly, you pushed open the door an inch and push your body through the small crack. “Yes!” You thought, holding the warm thing in your dirty hands. You hurriedly turn around and exit the door, but just as you were in the clear, a rather tall gentleman slams against you and the bread tumbles out of your hands.

“No!” you exclaimed under your breath.

“Oh dear, I am so so very sorry, please let me buy you a new one,” the man apologizes, guiding you towards the cashier.

You panic as the shopkeeper comes to view. “No sir, please don’t! I mean-” you can’t finish your sentence. Oh it’s all wrong. You are dreadfully famished yet certainly the shopkeeper will know you stole from him if the gentleman buys you a new loaf.

The gentleman assesses you from head to toe. He takes in your worn and faded dress, your messy matted hair and the soot clinging to your face and fingers. Your shoes have holes in them, but they still worked! You always insisted upon it whenever mother would offer to buy you a new pair.

“Did you steal it, dear?” the man kindly asks, lowering his body slightly so that he is eye-level with you. You reply him with silence. The man sighs and stood up. “I’ll take that as a yes. Wait outside the shop and I will return with some bread for you. Worry not”.

Without further ado, you scamper out of the shop and press your body against the brick wall outside. Can you trust this gentleman? Oh it doesn’t matter anymore, the only other option would be to go to prison. How foolish of you to steal! Mother and father would be so ashamed of you. You should have trusted that God would provide for you or at least beg in the streets like a proper urchin.  

The few minutes that it took for the gentleman to buy you bread stretched on for an eternity. Your life flashes before your eyes dramatically, awaiting the potentially terrible future that awaits you. The bell above the door rings clearly and you stand straight, looking at the gentleman who has a tight smile.

“Here you go. Ten loaves should be enough for a couple of days,” the man offers the paper bag full of bread into your shaking arms.

“Thank you so much kind sir! How can I repay you?” you gratefully exclaim.

 “Hm. Care to tell me where you came from?”

“Oh… sure of course,” you reply. For the first time, you really take a look at the man in front of you. He’s wearing a black coat with a top hat and well-polished shoes. His garments look well tailored and he holds himself with an air of confidence. If you passed him on the street, you would have thought him aloof, another wealthy gentleman not willing to spend his time of day on anything but money.

“Well?” the man interrupts your thoughts.

“I’m so sorry. I am (y/n) (l/n), I just moved here from a small town near Birmingham. Trust me sir, I am nothing special, just a poor country girl who was clumsy enough to drop the few shillings she had when she just arrived. Hah,” you chuckled without emotion.

“Are you employed?”

“No sir, I was actually waiting in line for a job at the cotton mill when I saw the bakery up the street. I could not resist sir, I had been waiting for a few hours and the light looks so warm and… comforting. London is so upsetting… Oh I’m so sorry I don’t mean to insult your city,” god, why were you so clumsy with your tongue? 

The man chuckled. “No, no, I quite agree with you. That’s why I don’t live in London. My house lies on the outskirts of it, I find all the smog and suffering unnerving,” he paused. “Do you want to work at the mill?”

“No sir. It scares me to death knowing I have to work here all my life…” you shyly trail off.

The man seems to be deep in thought for a while, resting his chin on his fingers. “I am actually looking for a new housemaid. It’s nothing complicated to do, I just need a young, honest woman to do the job, and soon. My previous maid had… an unfortunate accident this morning,”

“Are you offering me a job sir? When you had just witnessed me stealing!” 

“I won’t hold you accountable for one crime. I grew up in the slums of London, my parents unable to feed me. The things I have done far outweigh your transgression. So I understand,” the man smiled, it always unnerves you when he does that. The smile never seem to reach his eyes, he always calculates it, every gesture purposeful.

“Sir… are you sure?” your heart fills with hope, you did not want to scare him away now. 

“Yes. I would not have mentioned it if I wasn’t. I believe you have potential to be a good housemaid. Just make sure to bathe before you start on the job,”

“Yes of course!” you laughed. “I promise you, I will do my best and not disappoint you,”

“I trust you will. Do you have a place to stay for the night?” the man’s blue eyes seem to be a multi faceted crystal looking at you, compelling you to follow him to the ends of the earth.

“Yes I do. Where should I meet you tomorrow?” you were afraid he would disappear after tonight, leaving you to return to the cotton mill.

“You can meet me here, tomorrow at 8 am sharp. Please be prompt,”

“Of course sir. Thank you very much for the opportunity. You will not regret it!” you smiled genially, curtsying slightly for additional politeness 

“Your welcome. By the way, my name is Thomas, Thomas Hiddleston,” the man introduces, smiling kindly.

“Very nice to meet you Mr. Hiddleston,”

“Alright then, I will see you tomorrow. Adieu,” and with that, Mr. Hiddleston makes his way up the street and disappears around a street corner.

You look up at the dark sky and thank God for the opportunity given to you. Lost in your thoughts, you had forgotten what time it is. Realizing abruptly that your cousins must be waiting for you at the mill, you took off in a sprint back where you came from.

“(y/n)!” a young woman called out.

“Sarah! Bessie!” you ran to them and fling your arms around Sarah’s neck to hug her.

“Oh (y/n) I have not seen you in a decade! How beautiful you are now, a fine young lady you have grown to be!” Sarah giggled into your hair.

“Where’s Hannah?” you have always liked Hannah best, she is the young sister of the three and always the thinnest.

Sarah and Bessie’s faces fell. “Hannah… is not with us anymore. A machine at the mill fell on her last year-” tears begin streaming down both of their dirty faces. “Oh God, Hannah,” they hold each other as they sob, the new information paralyzing you.

After some comforting, you and the two sisters walk back to their home. “I have bread! We can share it during supper,” you announce suddenly to lighten the mood.

“(y/n) you are a savior! We have not been able to afford bread for two weeks,” Bessie explains, wrapping her hand around your shoulder.

Your uncle’s home is simple, it is simply unfit to hold two people, let alone the five of their family. Yet they were very happy. A small fireplace crackles at the back of the living room where your uncle and aunt sits in, happily chatting. 

“Dear! How are you, oh heavens, you look absolutely exhausted!” your aunt exclaims, wrapping your frame in a knitted blanket.

The rest of the night passes on quite quickly, your mind never once leaving Mr. Hiddleston. How exciting it is that you don’t have to work at the cotton mill. You told the family over supper, and the other girls appear happy, albeit a little jealous of your opportunity.

That night you toss and turn in the small-shared bed, unable to get a blink of sleep. The flickering candle at the corner of the bedroom hold your attention for a few hours, until finally, slowly, your eyelids flutter shut.


	2. The Man And The Dying House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to clarify, I might add things such as religion and personal beliefs to the 'reader' character. I'm sorry if this contradicts anyone's personal faiths but I'm trying to be as historically accurate as possible with the characterization. Don't worry, this won't be a major part of the story!

_“Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change”_

\- Thomas Hardy

 

Tick tock went the clock that morning. You jolt out of the small warm bed at 7 am sharp and head down to help your aunt prepare breakfast. Your cousins join you soon enough, so that you were free to clean yourself. The soot has mainly disappeared from your figure, and your hair was clean and somewhat tidy. Bessie lent you one of her nicer dresses, and you promised to her that you would return it as soon as possible.

It is now 7:47. There is no time to waste. You must make haste. As quickly as your legs could take you, you bound down the streets of early morning London, amidst the hustle and bustle of businessmen, paper boys and laborers carrying barrels of stuff. The bakery had just opened and the scent of freshly baked bread waft into your nostrils.

You take out a small loaf of bread that you brought with you in your pocket and nibble on it while waiting for Mr. Hiddleston. You peer into the shop and watch as families with rambunctious children gather inside, their mothers converse with each other and gossip about the townswomen. 

“Rather unfortunate company to keep don’t you think,” Mr. Hiddleston’s voice snaps you out of your reverie.

“Mr. Hiddleston, good morning!” you curtsy in greeting much to his amusement.

“You don’t have to keep doing that you know. As long as you address me politely, that should suffice. Anyway, you did not answer my question,” Mr. Hiddleston presses.

“Ah, I’m afraid I don’t understand sir,” your tone indicating that you want him to explain.

“Those women, they are so petty and… lead such pointless existences. Gossiping and idle chatter is all they do. Where is the knowledge? The intellectually stimulating banters?” Mr. Hiddleston waves his hands to exaggerate his point. 

“With all due respect sir, you must be aware that women do not receive the same privileges of education as men do, so I’m afraid we have little choice in what to discuss with each other,” you feel your anger rising, but not enough to let it show.

“Yes, it’s a shame is it not,” Mr. Hiddleston looks deep in thought for a moment, before putting his hands together excitedly. “Alright, shall we? I cannot wait to show you the house”. 

You nod in approval and walk beside him down the street and around the corner. A black carriage with gold accents waits in a small alley. The dark horse neighed excitedly upon seeing Mr. Hiddleston.

“After you, please,” Mr. Hiddleston offers his arm to help you climb into the carriage. He climbs in immediately after you and shuts the door promptly. 

“Home please, Robert,” Mr. Hiddleston orders the coachman. The carriage moves forward suddenly with a jolt and you find yourself suddenly very anxious about what lies ahead. All the worried thoughts racing through your mind must have shown itself on your face, because not long into the journey, Mr. Hiddleston quips in, “What’s on your mind (y/n)?” 

“Oh nothing sir, I was just wondering what the future has in store for me. London is so unfamiliar and everything is moving so fast. I barely know you at all!” you giggle. 

“Well feel free to ask me anything, if I deem it suitable for a reply, then you shall have one,”

You think about what to ask for a moment. There are so many things you could possibly ask, and you are sure there is not enough time. “What do you do, for a living I mean?”

“I export and import goods. From Britain and from Asia…among other things” Mr. Hiddleston looks to be distracted, staring out the window. 

“Oh, I see,” you decide not to pry even more, for he does not look to be in the answering mood.

A few minutes of tense silence passes. “Surely you have more questions than that my dear,” Mr. Hiddleston remarks.

“Oh, I thought you were not in the answering mood,”

“Nonsense, something just occurred to me just now. Please, by all means more questions. I wouldn’t want you to work for me with a heavy heart,” Mr. Hiddleston smiles at you, it wasn’t comforting but it is enough for you to continue.

“Do you live alone?” you return his smile, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Yes,” he answers, confidently and with an air of firmness. 

“Does it not get lonely?” you continue to smile at him, hoping this is not a touchy subject. 

“Yes of course it does. However, I don’t believe I must succumb to feelings of loneliness. It weakens me. Anyway, people are so fickle, there really is no point in keeping many around,” Mr. Hiddleston explains, adding a smile at the end to lighten the subject.

You laugh awkwardly. This man is not one for light conversation. “I see”.

“How about you? Tell me more about the young country girl who refuses to work at the cotton mill,” Mr. Hiddleston asks, seeming genuinely curious to know.

“Well, I come from a small town near Birmingham, from a family of six. I have three brothers and they are all coming to London soon to work. My father works as a farmer and my mother sells our produce at the local market. They are lovely people, and I miss them terribly…”

“That sounds lovely, I have always envied those who grew up in a loving home,” Mr. Hiddleston comments, a sad smile playing at his lips.

“Did you not have a loving family growing up sir?” you feel uncomfortable asking this, but you feel as if he wants you to ask him. Why else would he bring it up.

“I grew up an orphan, but my aunt took me in for most of my childhood. She died when I was fifteen, so I had to begin working then”. He does not look sad sharing this, rather like he has said this a million times.

A comfortable silence ensues, during which you stare out the window and enjoy the greener areas of London’s perimeters. Wildflowers and unruly grass sprouted out from the ground, filling you with a feeling of hope. Your fingers fiddled at the hem of Bessie’s beige dress and made sure to sit appropriately. Every once in a while you would sneak a glance at the man across you and see that he is engrossed in a novel.

“What happened to the other maid? You mentioned she had an accident,” you suddenly ask, leaning forward slightly in intrigue. 

Mr. Hiddleston closes his novel and run his long fingers along the leather cover of the book. “She is ill, she has been for a very long time, and her accident reminded her that it is time to retire,” the dark haired man answers, his eyes never leaving yours.

You lower your eyesight, not comfortable with staring directly at his eyes for a long period of time. “I see. How unfortunate for her,” you look down at your lap and watch your fingers intertwine over and over again.

“Not unfortunate in my opinion. It was foolish for her not to take the hint,” Mr. Hiddleston comments off-handedly, opening his book again and returning to his reading.

Take the hint? About her illness? Probably so. Around ten minutes later the carriage enters a large black wrought-iron gate covered in ivy. The path is bumpier now, the surrounding area a mess of greenery and wild plants. As the carriage moves forward, the sunlight slowly disappears, blocked by the tall trees that intertwined above the path. You feel chills go down your spine, the darkness reminding you too much of London. 

Finally the mass of greenery ends and the carriage arrives at another wrought-iron gate. Flowers of pink and violet snake its way around the crevices and you find that to be more pleasing. The carriage moves around a circle that leads to the entrance of Mr. Hiddleston’s mansion. In the middle of the circle there is a fountain, with clear water flowing steadily from it. The pavement is more even now, a shade of pale beige. There is a stark contrast between the entrance way and this part of the estate. While the entrance was dark and eerie, this area is clear of most things, the sunlight creating a sort of dull glow that is unsettling. Dust seems to be swirling freely in the air, the random sounds of bird chirping fill the air here and there, but other than that there is total silence and a lack of activity.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, waiting for the carriage to finally pull up at the entrance. The large, dark oak doors open and a tall woman comes out to greet the company. The coachman opens the door and politely helps you down, Mr. Hiddleston following behind you.

“Welcome home, sir,” the woman greets Mr. Hiddleston.

“Hello Mary, please show (y/n) her quarters and supply her with anything she needs and have her see me in an hour,” Mr. Hiddleston orders.

“Yes sir. Come with me lassie,” Mary places her hand on the small of your back and guides you up the steps and into the house.

Inside the mansion it was mostly dark, slivers of sunlight streams through the large French windows, but thick curtains obscure most of it. Your feet glide easily enough on the polished marble floor, following the quick-footed Mary. Unfortunately, you are unable to observe the house at this point, since every time you slow down, the woman in front of you never waits. She takes you through a small white door along the left wing of the house and guides you up the small spiral staircase. A corridor lined with simple doors lies on top of the staircase, and you guess this was the maid’s quarters.

“Here you go miss,” Mary opens the third door to the right. “I will return with your dresses, toiletries and lunch. Do not leave the room please”. Mary closes the door behind her, leaving you to sit on the stiff single bed.

The room is simple with a single window above your bed. The floors and walls match each other and the monochromatic tone is definitely not aesthetically pleasing. A dresser stands across your bed and a small bedside table beside it. You run your fingers on the thin blanket covering the bed, it’s a shade camel, further contributing to the monochrome. 

There is another door inside the room, presumably leading to the bathroom. You were tempted to take a long warm bath, but quickly realize that you have less than an hour before being summoned.

Not long after, the door opens to reveal Mary carrying a tray of food and some clothes under her arms. You get up to help her carry the load and place the clothes on top of your dresser.

“Eat quickly and change miss, you have twenty minutes before you must attend to Mr. Hiddleston”. Mary seems frantic all the time; the lines on her young face making her look much older and weary.

“Where shall I meet him?” you ask, before Mary closes the door behind her.

“In the library, go to the right wing, when you reach the grand hall, turn to the first corridor on your right, you should find large double doors at the end of the corridor,” Mary quickly explains, closing the door behind her and scurrying down the staircase.

The instructions leave your mind immediately after Mary leaves, leaving you to be anxious as you quickly devour your lunch. The dry bread makes your throat ache, and the small bowl of soup did not help much with that.

You check the small clock in your room and see that there is ten minutes left. Quickly you slip on the new dress brought for you and exit your quarters.

Let’s hope you can find your way to the library.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what the entrance way sort of looks like: http://www.netmagmedia.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Furze-Croft-front-facade-and-driveway-1024x581.jpg (replace the bush in the middle with a fountain)


	3. The Path To Contrivance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is going to be a slow burn journey. By the way, Tom may seem like a character with so many contrasting personality traits, but this will all make sense eventually in the plot.

_“Feeling without judgement is a washy draught indeed; but judgement untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition”_

\- Charlotte Brontë

 

Your heart beats louder and louder as you find yourself getting more and more lost in the large mansion. To hell with the time, you are definitely late, by at least ten minutes. Hopefully this won’t cost you your job, oh but if it did you suppose it is part of your unfortunate fate. In a last ditch effort to find the library, you find yourself checking every corridor, hallway and behind every large door. The mansion feels just like the entrance way, quiet and eerily peaceful. Dust settles on every crevice and sheet-covered furniture item. Sunlight streams through the large windows for grander rooms and barely any light at all travel in for the smaller chambers. For a moment you had to convince yourself that this is in fact, real life and not some kind of dream sequence. 

To sum it up, it feels like if you just lie there, time will stop indefinitely and nothing matters anymore. No one will go searching for you, you will be perpetually suspended in a glass case and the world will simply fade away.

Twenty hallways into your journey, you finally stumble upon the grand hall. It’s breathtaking. Ten crystal chandeliers gleaming in the sunlight hang from the intricately carved and painted ceiling. Depictions of heavenly creatures and martyrs dominate the ceiling painting, and you find yourself wondering how long it took to create this masterpiece. The French windows are lined with gold and the draperies the color of blood.

The floor gleam under your feet and the gold swirls within the marble reminds you of an enchanted ocean. You did a twirl in the middle of the hall and breath in the morning air. Suddenly hit with the realization that you are still, indeed late, you break into a sprint down the first corridor to the right and find the large double doors leading to the library. The handles are heavy and made of bronze, but somehow you manage to open a small crack.

“Hello? Mr. Hiddleston?” you call out timidly.

“I’m behind these shelves, (y/n),” Mr. Hiddleston replies.

You make your way behind the endless rows of shelves towards his voice and finally find him leaning against a ladder. “Good you finally made it. I thought you had died or something ghastly of that nature,” Mr. Hiddleston laughed.

“Pardon me sir, the mansion is not a very simple place to navigate,” you smile at him, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“By the way, please call me Tom. Mr. Hiddleston seems to take up so much effort don’t you think?” Tom looks up from his novel, his eyes peering at you from above his reading glasses.

“Don’t you prize courtesy and politeness Mr- Tom?” you quickly correct yourself.

“I do, and since I am giving you permission to call me Tom, it wouldn’t be rude,” Tom flashes you a quick smile and return to reading. “Do me a favor and bring in my lunch please. Tell Mary that I shall be riding today, have her inform the stable boys,” Tom orders.

You nod quickly in response, but suddenly realize that you don’t know where Mary is. Lunch should be from the kitchen, but remembering your journey to the library, you’ll most likely never find it in time. You want to ask Tom where it is, but instead you find yourself shuffling around and not actually moving.

“You’d like to know where the kitchen is?” Tom asks after a few awkward seconds.

Thank God he’s observant. “Yes actually,” you giggle nervously.

“It’s the door next to the one that leads to the servant’s staircase, you shouldn’t miss it. Oh and (y/n), you’re new, so feel free to ask anything regarding your work,” Tom smiles at you sincerely and you find yourself blushing. Of course you have every right to ask where things are. He wouldn’t expect you to magically know where and how everything is around here. 

“Thank you sir”. And with that, you leave the library, feeling slightly relieved and make your way to the kitchen.

Thankfully you are better with retracing your steps than following directions, and soon enough you find the simple wooden doors leading to the kitchen. Mary stands in the middle, barking orders at young men and women chopping vegetables, stirring pots of stew and washing the dishes.

“(y/n) what do you need?” Mary wipes the sweat off her brow and places her hands on her hips.

“Lunch for Tom please,” you reply, a polite smile at the older woman.

Mary looks towards the ceiling and cocks her head to the side. “Since when is Mr. Hiddleston ‘Tom’?”

“Oh ah, well he asked me to call him that,” you blush under Mary’s judgmental stare.

“Huh, I’ve worked her ten years and he has never told me to do such an… improper thing,” Mary looks away and starts arranging food on a platter. 

“Here, make sure you don’t drop it,” Mary hands you a tray, pulling her hands away almost a little too early.

You turn on your heels and make your way out the door. Just as you step out of the kitchen, Mary grabs your arm firmly. “Remember your place dear,” she whispers, her eyes boring holes in yours.

You nod in response, making sure to walk more quickly in case Mary feels the need to pseudo-threaten you again. The walk back to the library took more or else ten minutes, and now that you know how to get there, it seems so stupid that it took so long the first time. You push the double doors open with your hip and make your way to the back of the vast room.

Tom is sitting behind a large worktable, strewn with paper and files. Pens, ink bottles and a rather large globe lie scattered on top of the pile of paper. You place his lunch carefully next to his right hand and wait for him to acknowledge you.

“Thank you (y/n), you may leave now,” Tom comments, barely looking up from his work.

You smile and curtsy before walking back out of the library. 

“(y/n),” Tom’s voice stops you dead in your tracks.

“Yes sir?” you turn around and wait for him to continue.

“Did you tell Mary to prepare my horse?” Tom asks, his voice even and his eyes never leaving his work.

Your heart begins beating violently. Oh no. You are first afraid of disappointing Tom, but other than that you are also not looking forward to seeing Mary again, especially if she finds out you forgot to carry out a task. Sort of thankfully, Tom is able to guess the answer based on your paling face and anxious posture. The man in front of you tightens his jaw and inhales sharply. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, his hand gripping a pen tightly. Tom remains tense and frustrated for a few seconds more before opening his eyes and releasing the poor pen. 

“I suppose, you are new to this job. Please do not make the same mistake again. Go and tell Mary immediately that I shall like my horse ready as soon as possible. Also, I want you to go with her to the stables and wait by my horse for me,” Tom instructs, his eyes watching you sternly, all hints of warmness gone.

Fifteen minutes later and you are standing next to a handsome steed, its coat black with white splotches on its head. The saddle is made of luxurious looking black leather and you cannot resist running your fingertips on it. The horse neighs as you gently stroke its smooth and trimmed mane.

“Shhh, I’m not trying to hurt you,” you whisper quietly to the horse, as if it could even understand.

“Her neighing isn’t to show that she’s upset you know,” Tom explains, walking towards you, his posture straighter than usual. It might be because of the riding gear.

“Oh, did I look that anxious?” you laugh, feeling once again self-conscious by Tom’s observations.

“Yes. If she was upset, you would have been kicked to the ground,” Tom smiles at you, mounting his horse gracefully.

You gasp in response to the horse’s supposed aggression towards things it dislikes. “Um that’s quite harsh don’t you think? Even for a horse…”

“I trained her to be that way specifically,” Tom answers, his voice steady and void of any humor.

A thought runs through your mind that your employer may have actual anger or aggression issues, and this probably will not bode well with you if you make any more mistakes. You smile in reply and hand him his riding crop. Tom pulls out his gold pocket watch and promptly places it back into his vest.

“Do you ride?” Tom asks suddenly.

“I-I yes I do… sometimes,” you did not expect to be asked a personal question at this point. You assumed he was in a hurry or something. 

Tom pauses and thinks, stroking his horse’s dark mane. “Would you like to ride with me? I think I saw the stable boy had another horse ready. It’s rather boring to ride alone don’t you think?”

You are taken aback by the request, perhaps he only wants you to bring his things? It’s not unusual for a servant to accompany their master riding, but this seems out of character for some reason. Actually it probably isn’t and you are just thinking too much. “I thought you don’t mind being alone,” you ask, a playful smile on your lips.

“Well since you are here anyway, why not take up the opportunity for company? In any other cases I would not go out of my way just to seek a riding partner,” Tom waves his hand in the air, as if brushing the idea away.

“Alright, I’ll go,” you reply, smiling happily at the opportunity for a fun activity.

The stable boy helps you mount the horse sidesaddle and the two of you take off into the forest behind the mansion. The ride is quiet and sort of tense, since none of you begin to speak. Tom looks straight ahead the whole time while you sort of glance around aimlessly to occupy your thoughts. The forest is quiet and peaceful, some small woodland animals scurrying here and there, birds chirping high up in the trees and the occasional rustle of a deer through the thick bushes.

“Do you hunt?” you ask Tom. A man like him probably does. 

“Not anymore. All the animals living on my property are left untouched. They share as much a right to live as anyone in the house. Perhaps some of them a little more,” Tom adds the last part more quietly.

A lull in the conversation ensues. You are not sure what to answer to that. You’re pretty sure you understand what he means, since animals are innocent and all. In order to be rid of any curiosity, you ask just in case. “Why?”

“You know perfectly why”. And with that, the dark haired man in front of you quickens the horse’s pace to a canter. Your beige horse follows suit and soon enough the both of you are galloping freely through the forest. Riding sidesaddle is not something you are used to. When Tom asked whether or not you had ridden, you meant you had ridden astride back at the farm. Sure it was improper, but no one was really there to judge or stop you from doing so. Not to mention that the saddle you were on is not a two-pommel sidesaddle. You should have observed it and asked for a change before riding.

Ten minutes into galloping and you feel your body getting less and less balanced atop the horse. You pull forcefully on the reigns to steady yourself, but the horse keeps on moving at the same pace. In what feels like slow motion, you begin slipping down your saddle and your hands flail wildly in an attempt to pull yourself back up.

“Tom!” you manage to yell. He looks back just as you completely lose your seating and tumble on the ground violently. Your body rolls around on the dirt several times before landing on your face. You hear Tom’s horse skidding to a halt and he dismounts quickly to tend to you.

“(y/n) are you alright? Are you hurt?” Tom helps you up to your feet slowly, checking all over your body to check for signs of harm.

“I think so. Just a little dizzy,” you weakly respond, your feet still unsteady from the impact. You grip Tom’s shoulder firmly to stay upright and feel your body slowly falling against his. “I’m sorry, just give me a minute please,” you whisper to him.

Tom does not reply, instead he just rubs your back comfortingly. “You’ve never ridden sidesaddle have you?” he asks softly.

“No. I’m sorry for not mentioning it, I should have known”.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t believe in ladies riding sidesaddle anyway”. You can feel Tom smiling and the small gesture of support warms you. “Let’s get you back to the house shall we?” Tom suggests, gently guiding you to his horse.

“I don’t have to ride sidesaddle do I?” you ask jokingly, managing a weak laugh.

“No, you’ll ride with me. The other horse can just follow along”.

Tom gently lifts you to his horse and helps your drape your legs on either side of the animal. You make sure to cover the entirety of your legs and front with your cotton skirt, for fear of being improper. Tom may be forward thinking with riding positions, but he surely wouldn’t be so open with accidental nudity. You move backwards on the saddle to allow Tom to climb in and place your hands unsurely on his waist. Thankfully Tom does not protest, rather nodding approvingly at the gesture. “Hold on,” Tom instructs, before letting the horse move at a steady canter back towards the house.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss riding so much, I am living vicariously through writing this chapter.


	4. The Indulgence of Pity Parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter today :D I know the story is kinda jumping a little but this is to help me build the plot faster.

_“What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?”  
_

\- George Eliot

 

It has been two weeks since you arrived in London, exactly two weeks since you met the enigmatic Mr. Thomas Hiddleston. You are so consumed by daily tasks that you almost forget today is your seventeenth birthday. Technically you are a woman now! How exciting. Just a glowing smile makes its way to your face, you realize you have no one here to celebrate with, no one who even knows today is special. You suppose birthdays are just regular days anyway, it’s just a selfish notion to celebrate it.

This morning, you bring Tom his breakfast as per usual to his chambers. He is sitting on his armchair smoking a pipe and reading the papers intently. A small, daring voice within you wills you to tell your employer that it is your birthday today. No, no, no, how stupid! It’s simply improper to busy him with such unimportant information. How could you even think of such an idea? Quickly you turn on your heels and make your way out of Tom’s elaborately decorated bedchambers.

“(y/n) happy birthday,” Tom says, his voice barely sounding celebratory, but rather quite monotone and matter-of-factly.

Your breath hitches and you suddenly turn around to face him. “You- you know?” you sound rather dumbfounded, how could you not be? Is he a mind reader too? You would not be surprised if he is. 

“Of course I know. I have every employee I hire background checked to make sure they are indeed trustworthy. I can’t go around taking risks. Congratulations by the way, you are now a woman,” Tom huffs a laugh.

“Why is it amusing?” you ask, wondering if he finds the concept of you ageing hilarious.

Tom shakes his head quickly with a smile on his face. “I don’t know, I’ve always found the idea of placing milestones on certain ages… frivolous. It’s something an idle person would do, sit around and wait to hit a certain age so they can call themselves ‘marriage age’ or ‘retired’”

“I think it’s nice. It creates something to look forward to,” you smile in return. 

“But why? With every coming year you know you have less milestones to reach, and one day the only one left will be death,” Tom elaborates his expressions revealing exasperation.

You did not even realize you feel strongly about this issue until this very moment in time. “I disagree, I think it should not be depressing that you have less milestones to achieve, it’s wonderful to look back and realize you made it through all that. And I don’t believe death is particularly scary, I think it gives life purpose. If we did not die, then nothing would really matter don’t you think? All the milestones would just be another day in life that could happen over and over again”.

Tom puts down his papers and leans back on his armchair. He places his hands together and tips his chin slightly with them. “You must believe in God,” he finally asks.

“I do, sir. Most people do I think. Do you not?” hopefully he is not going to challenge your beliefs, for this is not a territory you are comfortable with.

“And do you believe in a God simply because most people do?” Tom asks, his brow rising slightly.

“No sir, I read the Bible, everyday back in my home. My family would gather around every supper and my brothers and I would take turn reading to my parents who could not read,” you explain, a nostalgic smile on your face.

“So God is simply a means for your family to be closer. You believe in the feeling of bonding and happiness you feel with other people that he represents, rather than actually believing in him,” Tom presses on, his eyes pushing you to come up with a better reply.

“I believe He loves his children, sir, including the non-believers. He sacrificed His only Son to die on the cross for our sins. I could not imagine why a God would do that if He does not care deeply about us,” your voice rises slightly at the last sentence, frustrated that he has to press this. 

“This is the same God that created sin in the first place,” Tom counters. Satisfied with watching you open and close your mouth, at a loss of what to reply. “Now how would you explain that?” Tom asks, his eyebrows knitted together and a smirk playing on his lips.

“I- if God did not create sin, and we were all perfect slaves of His creation, then our love would be meaningless. We choose to love and have faith in Him, rebelling against our sinful nature and instead returning to our creator,” you feel rather satisfied in your comeback. 

“Ha!” Tom sits back even more comfortably in his armchair, resting one of his legs on his other knee. “How selfish of Him! How could you possibly trust in a God that plays you like that? Do you not see that this is all a sick joke to your Creator, playing his ‘people’ like pawns against sin, deciding who will eventually choose Him and who will not? Who is created to go to Heaven and who is crated to rot in Hell? If you believe in the free will to love God, then that dismisses the idea of an all-powerful Creator who guides everything in existence!” Tom explains heatedly, looking very satisfied and filled with passion from the stimulating conversation.

“I- I don’t know what to say, sir,” you complete your sentence frustrated, breathing heavily from the annoying conversation. Your expression shows utter contempt and irritation at Tom.

Tom meanwhile, just sits back and watches your struggle to rethink your personal faith. This was some kind of sick entertainment for him, a voyeur of people being challenged internally.

“Why are you doing this to me, sir?” you finally speak up, albeit timidly. You refuse to look him straight in the eye for fear of breaking down in annoyance, so you opt to stare at the hardwood floor instead. 

“Because I find it absolutely loathsome for people to believe in things they don’t actually understand. All this superstition and talk of nonsense around me all the time even in educated societies, it’s disgusting,” Tom sneers, making dramatic gestures with his hands. 

“Well I apologize if I’m not as enlightened as you are, Mr. Hiddleston,” you reply bitingly, choosing to address him formally to show your grievance.

“You live and you learn do you not?” Tom smiles at you, it makes your blood boil. You wish to smack that self-satisfied smirk off his chiseled features.

“May I be excused, sir?” you ask quietly.

“Yes, of course,” Tom waves his hand to shoo you away and you waste no time in turning around so you would not have to face him anymore. You feel tears threaten to spill from your eyes. You are not sure why this conversation got you so riled up. Perhaps it’s because everyday it seems that you are not valued here. You suppose it’s just right that you aren’t, since you are just a housemaid. The terrible thing is, the fact that you feel more and more isolated in your current state. You feel your family and joy moving farther from you like a ship sailing away into the open waters.

When you reach the kitchen, Mary is waiting for you with a small slice of pie. “Happy birthday (y/n),” Mary smiles at you and pushes the plate closer to your side of the table.

“Thanks Mary,” you politely return her smile and stare at the melting pie in front of you. The apple slices slowly fall out of the lattice cover, seeming to dramatically flop onto the plate below. Tom must have told her about your birthday, but seeing as he sort of ruined the day for you, there really was no point in telling her. In order to be polite, you take a bite of it anyway, admitting begrudgingly that it does taste good.

“Mary,” you call out to her. The woman looks over her shoulder to acknowledge you as she continues with her washing. “What happened to the previous maid?”

Mary turns her head back to face forward. “Mr. Hiddleston must have explained to you. She had an unfortunate accident”.

“What kind of accident?” you press on.

“Why does it matter lassie? She’s not even here anymore,” Mary replies, her tone clearly pressing you to stop talking.

You prod at the pie with the fork in your hand and wonder how to make her open up more. “I don’t know, I just feel like I need to know…” you lamely respond.

Mary puts down the pot she has been vigorously scrubbing. She turns around to face you and places her hands on her hips. She lets out a deep breath and cocks a brow. “You ask a lot of questions you know that,” she states, her tone clearly disapproving.

“Yeah… I know. I’m just not easily satisfied with half answers you know…”

Mary leans forward on the table to get closer to you. “If truth be told, no one here really knows what happened to Anna. We know she was ill for a very long time, and that she had plans of leaving the house. All we were told by Mr. Hiddleston was that Anna suffered from a terrible accident while cleaning the upper shelves of the library and that she had to go home immediately. Her things were packed so quickly I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. She was off in the blink of an eye,” Mary whispers quickly, her eyes darting here and there to watch for eavesdroppers. 

“Well that’s very odd…” you muse under your breath.

“Indeed my dear. I suggest you don’t ask any more questions, especially not ones that are reluctantly answered. Just do your work and nothing bad will happen to you,” Mary smiles, albeit it does not look comforting. “Maids come and go quite often here, and it’s usually quite hush hush when they do. In the time I’ve worked here, three maids have come and gone. Let’s hope you won’t be the fourth,” Mary tells you, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

You lower your gaze and trace the wooden grains on the tabletop. Something strange surely happened, or else this would not be kept a secret. Why did maids change so often? Was it because Mr. Hiddleston is a tough man to please? But Mary is still here after all these years…

“Mary, why do the maids keep changing? Is it because Mr. Hiddleston wasn’t pleased with them?” you ask, looking into the tired woman’s eyes.

“Honestly I do not think so. All the maids have been lovely and very capable. None of them overstepped their bounds or did anything to displease Mr. Hiddleston. He seemed very fond of all of them as well,” Mary explains, her brows knitting together in thought.

“Do you think Mr. Hiddleston is a bad man? Or at least does he seem strange to you sometimes, because I do…” your voice dies down towards the end, afraid of offending Mary in some way. 

“Hmm… I wouldn’t say he is, just a little… peculiar sometimes,” Mary answers, not willing to divulge into details.

“Wouldn’t say he’s what?”

You turn around suddenly to face Tom standing in the doorway of the large kitchen watching the two of your conversing. His raises a brow in question and your mouth open and close in a futile attempt to answer. Mary walks from behind the table towards him, asking what he needs from the kitchen. “Kitchen string,” he answers.

You wonder why he did not just summon someone to get the string for him, but coincidentally he explains the reason to Mary. “I did not want to summon (y/n) to get it for me. I know she needs a break and I thought it would be pleasant to walk around for a bit,” Tom explains, smiling at Mary. 

Mary smiles in return and hands him a mess of string. “Will this be enough, sir?” Mary inquires.

“Yes Mary, I think it should be. Thank you,” Tom takes the string from her and eyes it carefully. He nods at Mary and flashes a quick smile at you before exiting the kitchen quickly. Time seems to halt for a few seconds, before everything returns to business as usual. Mary makes her way back to you and exhales a sigh of relief.

“Let’s not gossip about him in public again shall we?” Mary whispers, a short laugh following.

“I agree,” you reply, laughing as well at your near faux pas.


	5. There Are Ghosts In These Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight trigger warning for violence
> 
> Finally, some intrigue in this chapter. By the way you might have noticed I include a quote from a Victorian author in every chapter. They might not seem like they relate to the chapters, but they actually provide very important clues as to what each chapter means in the story. Especially this one.

_“There is a condition worse than blindness, and that is, seeing something that isn't there”_

\- Thomas Hardy

 

There is only one day in the year that Tom formally invites people over to his house. Actually, there aren’t many occasions of him inviting anyone informally either. As you have been here for several months now, your life has been increasingly duller. Work becomes easier now that it’s a routine; Mary is not exactly a talkative person and Tom… well he has been working more and more lately.

Naturally, you are dying for this Christmas party to happen. You volunteer for as many tasks related to it as possible, mostly helping Tom choose the theme and food options for the dinner. The party is going to last for two days and two nights, with the guests all receiving individual suites to stay in for the night. Extra workers has to be brought in to accommodate for all the new inhabitants, and you cannot be more excited for the new friends.

It is now two weeks to the Christmas party and tension is building rapidly. You however are perfectly at ease with the commotion and streams of workers coming in. Each servant has to be roomed with three temporary servants, each of them provided with only a mattress and pillow. There are men coming in to fix the chandeliers, decorate the grand hall, decorate the Christmas tree and repave the entrance way. 

Tom seems to be as usual, not particularly interested in the party preparations. He promptly chose the menu and theme when you asked him, but aside from that remains working in his private office. You wish so desperately to ask him more about preparations, what colors he would like for the Christmas tree, what type of silverware should be on the tables, should the guests be gifted with a basket of fruits or just a bottle of champagne? Every time you would bring it up, however, Tom would simply brush it off and tell you that it’s your call. 

The authority you have in the house escalated significantly during the prep season, since you have most contact with Tom. The lack of the master also means people are willing to take directions from anyone who looks like they know what they’re doing. 

Fourteen days passes by in a whirlwind of satin tablecloths and deliveries of bouquets. You wake up on the 24th of December feeling more anxious than you have been in a very long time. For some reason you feel accountable if the party goes badly, even though technically no one even put you in charge. Dressing in the uniform given to all Christmas party servants, you walk to Mary’s room and gently knock on the door. She groggily joins you to the kitchen, where the staff has been busy making hors d'oeuvres since four AM. The guests will arrive at noon for cocktails and canapés. 

Tom is nowhere in sight for the first few hours after you wake. Only at ten AM did he emerge from his bedchambers, fully dressed for a luncheon, looking slightly more cheerful than his usual dark attire. Snow falls steadily out the window, coating everything in a powdery white. You feel at peace watching the empty grand hall – all decked out in gold, red and white, just waiting for its guests. You figure it would probably be all right to loiter here for a few more minutes, at least until Mary comes to fetch you.

You sit on the window seat, leaning your back against the side wall. Fog covers the thick glass of the French windows, allowing you to trace random patterns on it.

“Mind if I join you?” Tom strides in, casually observing the décor.

“Of course not, please,” you scoot over and lower your legs to appear more decent in front of him.

Tom takes a seat next to you and observes the patterns you traced into the fog. “You did a wonderful job with the décor. Just what I envisioned for this, thank you,” Tom quietly says, smiling at you. 

“Well I cannot say I have all the credit for this. The decorators worked long hours to pull all this off, mostly without my help I’m afraid,” you explain, giggling.

Tom stares at his lap for a moment, the room comfortable silent. You have grown to be accustomed to his pauses, those lulls in the conversation. Now you know those are not necessarily bad, he just likes to think before he says anything. 

“You know, I never look forward to these annual parties. I’m sure you could tell,” Tom chuckles bitterly.

“Why is that? I love organizing things like this, it gives me a real sense of purpose,” you add, looking dreamily around the beautiful room.

“Something about all the faux formalities and being forced to be in a room full of those wishing just as much to wipe the overly-genial smiles off their faces. Not to mention I have not interacted with a lot of my guests for years, so I do not exactly see why I should invite them, aside from courtesy,” Tom explains monotonously. 

“Hmm… that is true,” you nod in agreement.

“Well, we should go and wait for the guests I suppose,” Tom stands, offering his hand to help you up.

At half past eleven, guests begin trickling in slowly, pulling up in their shiny carriages, the horses covered with a light layer of snow. You volunteer to be one of the ushers at the door, welcoming the guests and offering to take their fur coats. Tom moves to and fro between the various rooms most of the guests are in. The drawing room is filled to bursting with laughing women, the clinking of champagne glasses and a general feel of liveliness.

You feed off the energy of the dozens of elite guests milling about the house, the servants frantic to refill glasses and bring out more plates of canapés. When there is a lull in the coming of guests, you would try and find Tom, to see how he is faring among all the forced smiles. He looks to be doing just fine, just as a fine gentleman with a fortune should act. At around 2 pm, the ushers begin leaving the entrance to help the kitchen staff with serving lunch. Most of the guests now sit in the expansive dining hall, each conversing heatedly with those to their sides. You stand in the corner of the room, waiting to see if Tom needs anything. Suddenly, the door to the dining room opens and a servant escorts a couple in.

The man looks to be in his sixties, with salt and pepper hair, a full beard and a fitted three-piece suit. He has one of those faces that you never forget, the ones that you pass by on the street and think about for the following days. Next to him, a woman in her twenties timidly looks around the room, weary of the eyes watching their late entrance. She is dressed in a crimson gown, perhaps a little over the top for lunch. The servant shows them to the table and they sit, facing forward and not attempting to make conversation.

Despite your observations of the couple, your eyes never really leave Tom’s. His expressions varied wildly from the span of time the door opened to now. He paled considerably when the man was shown into the room, clenching his fists into knuckles. His eyes dart around to search for a distraction, but eventually landed squarely on the other man’s. Tom’s jaw tightened when he finally looked at the woman beside him, and you noticed when the woman returned his stare, it was with utter trepidation and panic. 

Perhaps you were imagining things; you do like to come up background stories for various people in your spare time. The luncheon goes smoothly from here on out, the courses are served briskly and the guests are laughing, half drunk. Tom seems to be enjoying himself, taking a turn of the room to interact with those on the other side of the table. There is perhaps around fifty guests at the large table, mostly men with younger women.

After lunch, some of the men go out riding, while the women stay inside and play bridge. Tom chooses to entertain the men, naturally. You stay in the drawing room, where most of the women are and refill their glasses with champagne or wine. Gossiping is absolutely rampant in the predominantly red room; women are openly sniping at each other, making hurtful comments about others’ husbands or children. It is quite evident at this point, that these women have little to do in their daily lives, aside from knitting and having brunch with each other. Some work would do these noble women good. You stand near the fireplace for warmth and tune in to a conversation between three older women.

“Agnes, have you heard, Tom has a new scandal, and it’s more odd than the last one,” 

“No I haven’t, Helen. Pray tell, what is it this time?” the pudgier woman asks the first.

“Is it another mistress? I never believe those rumors you know. He seems too odd to do something so common as to keep a mistress. I bet the man’s a virgin,” the third woman interjects, her tone snarky.

“No Beatrice. It isn’t a mistress this time. I think it’s much worse,” Helen whispers close to her two friends.

The women wait anxiously for Helen to continue, and you find yourself edging closer to them.

“You know that maid he had, the one with the fawn hair and sunken eyes, the one that looks like a skeleton,” Helen begins, her two friends nodding quickly to signal her to continue. “She went missing, and I heard some policemen were involved in the case. Old Gregory knows most about it I think. He and Isabelle have been keeping this under wraps for months now”.

“What, do you think she’s been murdered?” Beatrice gasps.

“No, Betty, it’s not possible… Tom’s a fine man,” Agnes laughs nervously.

“Agnes don’t defend him just because you secretly wish you were married to him. The man practically appeared out of nowhere in our society. God knows what he was before being a merchant. Speaking of which, we never really do know what he does for a living… Everyone knows he trades with the East Indies, but that’s as well as saying you do business with imaginary people,” Beatrice quips.

The conversation slowly drifts away from Tom, and you find yourself milling about the room again trying to process what you just heard. So there was funny business with the previous maid, and no one really knows except Gregory and Isabelle, whoever they are. 

The men return from riding a few hours later and everyone gathers in the ballroom to dance. The orchestra plays Christmas music and the feeling of joy and warmth permeates through the room. You almost forget about the conversation you overheard in the afternoon, getting caught up in the spirit of the season. Tom announces that dinner will be served in half an hour at the dining room, and after that everyone is free to retire to their assigned chambers.

You watch the dinner slightly bored, for it is the exact replica of the lunch a few hours ago. The old man and his young partner still refuses to interact with others, giving short replies to any questions. Every so often, Tom’s eyes would flicker to the couple, taking a sip of wine every time. At the end of dinner, Tom is quite obviously drunk, his skin is a rosy shade and his eyes are glazed. He stands to make a toast to the season and to everyone in the room, highlighting special people and sharing anecdotes about them.

At eleven pm, most of the guests have retired to their rooms and the servants are busy setting the décor for tomorrow’s lunch and dinner. The theme for tomorrow is winter wonderland, so all the walls are decked with a shimmery white fabric. Crystal snowflakes hang from the ceilings and decorate the dining table. 

You pass by all the rooms, nodding satisfactorily at the progress. Finally you reach the library corridor, stopping as you hear a commotion from within. You realize Tom and a woman is fighting inside, causing quite a racket. Slowly, without making a sound you open the door ever so slightly and peek inside. 

The woman is the old man’s partner, who you now know as Isabelle. Tom has her against a wall, cowering in fear. She looks absolutely terrified, the moonlight further emphasizing how pale she is. 

“How dare you, you stupid excuse of a woman!” Tom yells, his right fist landing on the wall beside her head.

“Tom please don’t do this,” Isabelle whispers, sweat dripping down her temples.

“Isabelle, I’m warning you, don’t try and resist,” Tom’s voice, dangerously low, warns her.

Isabelle’s eyes widen and she wraps her arms around her torso. “Don’t please, he won’t be pleased, you know how Greg is,” Isabelle pleads, trying to shield herself from Tom.

You watch as Tom’s jaw tightens, his stance absolutely menacing. Without warning, Tom throws himself on Isabelle, tackling her against the wall, in an attempt to force her to release her arms. Isabelle wails and screams for help, earning her a threat from Tom. She eventually quiets after Tom whispers something in her ear, which must have been terrifying. Your eyes remain transfixed on the scene before you, not even wondering if you should help Isabelle. Eventually Tom manages to hold Isabelle against the wall, face first. He reaches to her front, feeling for something there. You notice tears streaming down Isabelle’s face, as she looks at the wall in front of her. 

Fearing you will witness something truly terrible if you don’t leave, you find your feet taking off in a silent sprint down the corridor until you reach the servant’s quarters. Finally reaching your room, you slam the door shut behind you and sink to the floor. Are you guilty of being the only witness of Isabelle’s attack? Tears begin streaming down your cheeks as you realize she is probably in great danger, and you are here, not doing anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment or kudos to show me if you like where the story is going!


	6. Putting The Porcelain Back Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I haven't updated in three days, I had so much to do!

  _“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story”_

 - Edith Wharton

 

Day two of the Christmas party. When you wake up today, it was to a feeling of utter hopelessness and dread. The events of last night hit you like a freight train, except you aren’t dead, sadly. Your sleep was disturbed by theories of what happened, the events playing over and over again, with your imagination compensating for the beginning and end that you did not witness. Are you really responsible for not saying or doing anything? No… of course you aren’t, it was simply by chance that you happened to witness it. But then again, perhaps it isn’t chance after all, but fate, since you knew more than anyone else about Tom.

Confused as you are, you still manage to leave your bed and go about fulfilling your duties. The first one is to help the rest of the servants wake the guests and guide them to the dining hall for breakfast. Despite it being eight am, the room is filled with excitement and a general feel of joy. Understandable, since it is Christmas day! You would be excited too, however your anxiety of seeing Tom trumps any joy left in your heart. Being a maid gives you an excuse to wander around the room aimlessly, pretending to find errands to do. Once you have taken a turn of the dining hall and the drawing room, you realize that Gregory and Isabelle are gone. This is definitely not a coincidence you think to yourself. What if Isabelle is hurt and Gregory had to take her home? What if he’s angry with her for what happened? It’s not like it was her fault. 

Eventually you find Tom, mingling with the guests. He looks to be acting normally, just chatting amicably without a worry in his mind. How could he! Does he know Gregory and Isabelle are gone? Of course he does, that’s why he looks so happy today. Was the whole assault to get Isabelle and Gregory to leave? If he really is _that_ uncomfortable with their company, then why invite them in the first place?

The festivities really start at around six pm, when the guests all gather around the Christmas tree to hang a bauble that each of the guests have brought from home. You notice this is a sort of competition for all the guests, outshining their peers’ baubles by having those made of gold, diamonds and rubies. After the decorating is finished, the guests begin singing Christmas carols together, holding hands with each other and dancing under the enormous evergreen tree. Everything feels so homey and warm, the guests put aside their petty differences, and the mood is of the quintessential Christmas cheer.

Christmas dinner is absolutely spectacular. Turkeys lined the table, as well as goose and ham. Wine flows freely to every open cup, men are laughing, and women are chatting. Tom looks to be in a particularly good mood, definitely drunk you think. Several people make toasts to Tom, thanking him for his generosity and the wonderful Christmas atmosphere. You feel sad that in a few hours, all of these people would be going home and tomorrow morning all the servants had to leave.

At around midnight, the guests have stopped drinking, mostly because a lot of them are half passed out. Guests mingle in the drawing room, sipping brandy and playing chess. Carriages line the entrance way outside, waiting for the drunken guests to be escorted outside by their assigned servants. You feel frustrated seeing all the slow moving guests, throwing up on the floor and in potted plants, creating more mess for the servants to clean up. Finally, after a long hour of escorting everyone outside and making sure they made it to their carriage, the Christmas party is officially over. The mansion is an absolute mess. Wine glasses, plates, chess pieces and trash are scattered on the floor. The grand hall’s décor is still beautiful, just a little damaged by all the drunken guests. The servants quickly put out all the gaslights in the large room, leaving only the candles on the Christmas as lighting. It is too late to start any effort to clean; so all the servants slowly trickle to their quarters and retire for the night.

You stand in the middle of the grand hall, watching the glowing Christmas tree with the large presents nestled under it. Your fingers reach up to hold a golden bauble in your hand, fascinated at how it glows in the dim lighting and moonlight. The imaginary hum of the orchestra plays in your mind, causing you to sway your hips, closing your eyes to imagine a full ballroom.

“How was the party?” Tom asks, strolling into the grand hall.

You open your eyes abruptly and turn around to face him. “Hmm, I don’t know… you tell me,” you reply, a little jokingly. 

“I thought it went really well don’t you think? The guests seem pleased,” Tom smiles, taking a sip from the glass of scotch in his hand.

“Yes, I agree. This is going to take ages to clean though,” you remark, motioning around the room at the scattered trash.

Tom wanders aimlessly around the room, taking in the empty peacefulness of a winter night. “Would you like to dance?” Tom asks suddenly, offering his free hand to you.

“Oh, but we don’t even have music,” you laugh.

“It’s fine, we can hum a tune. I saw you swaying just now, so I assume you can dream up an orchestra,” Tom smiles, putting down his glass before taking your hand in his. You press up against Tom’s warm figure, letting him guide the two of you. He hums a random tune to set the mood. You let the comfortable feeling of his hand on your waist sweep you away, into a land where you did not witness him assaulting Isabelle just yesterday. Tom looks down at you, his blue eyes intently observing your distracted features.

“What are you thinking about?” Tom whispers into your hair. 

“Nothing,” you quickly reply. No matter how lovely the mood is, once the thought of Isabelle came to your mind, you could not shake it off no matter how hard you try to put it off for another day.

“No, you’re lying,” Tom remarks. His tone is not an accusatory one, but it’s rather like a parent trying to save their child the trouble of disappointing them.

You cannot take it anymore. It’s eating you alive. You push yourself away from Tom all of a sudden, standing about an arm’s length away. Tom looks genuinely concerned at this point, wondering why you are so upset all of a sudden.

“What did you do to Isabelle?” you manage to ask, your voice quiet and weak.

Tom looks taken aback, his eyebrows knit together, perplexed. “What?” Tom sounds incredulous, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t act so surprised, I saw it all happen last night in the library… You…you,” you cannot finish the sentence, fearing what you are wanting to accuse him of sounds improper. How ridiculous is that? If he really did what you think you saw, then that is more improper than anything you could ever say.

“What? What did I do, pray tell (y/n),” Tom steps forward, his expression one of annoyance.

“I-I you know what you did!” you exclaim, taking small steps away from him.

“You think I attacked Isabelle?” He sounds like he’s trying to talk to a confused child. 

“Yes… I saw you threatening her, touching her…” you trail off, ashamed.

Tom lets out an audible laugh. “Ha! Oh that’s good, so you think… God,” Tom looks at you like what you just said was ridiculous. This does not comfort you particularly, and you are now fearing for your own safety. Tom seems rather unstable sometimes. 

“So is that what you think happened? My dear, if anything, Isabelle attacked _me_! She and her ridiculous husband has been spreading false rumors about me, accusing me of murder, kidnapping, fraud, you name it. Gregory has been on my case for ages, and it’s about time I confront them about it,” Tom explains, his face livid.

“Why would they accuse you of such things?” you quietly asked. 

“Ah,” Tom wipes his face with his hand. He lets out a cackle. “I don’t know! He’s jealous of my success, spiteful because of Isabelle,” Tom stops to take his scotch and down it.

“I’m afraid I’m not following…” you press on.

“Oh yes, this must be very very confusing to you. Forgive me. Isabelle is my half sister. Our relationship was not conventional in any way, and Gregory still holds it against me. I won’t tell you how our relationship was or why Isabelle came to despise me, but rest assured it was not my fault,” Tom explains, with an air of faux lightheartedness. 

The first thing that comes to your mind is incest. But that’s awful! He wouldn’t… but perhaps he would, it’s Mr. Hiddleston after all. 

“I may not be the most transparent or ‘normal’ man by any means, but please don’t take those accusations to heart. And next time if you see something that confuses you, just ask. Don’t make assumptions. You wouldn’t fare very well doing that,” Tom chastises, looking at you sternly.

“Yes, sir,” you nod, lowering your eyes to the ground. 

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning”. And with that, Tom strides out of the grand hall and away from you. 

“Wait!” you call out, but it was too late. He is gone. What was it that Tom was trying to get from Isabelle anyway? Why did he have to physically… confront her? Did she have something that Tom wanted? It’s too late now to breach the subject again, lest it gets heated like it just did. You stand in the middle of the grand hall alone, watching the flickering candle light dance on your skin. You have a strong feeling this is only the beginning of your long and strenuous relationship with Mr. Hiddleston.


	7. When In A Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have authors you think are suitable to quote in this story, please tell me! I'm open to great quote suggestions

_“Look twice before you leap”_

\- Charlotte Brontë

 

Every weekend, the servants are allowed to go to the city to shop for personal needs and produce. The weekend after Christmas day however, brings a terrible storm that blocks the road to the city. You are deeply saddened by this knowledge, because you had planned to buy a beautiful new dresses for Sarah and Bessie. On Friday night, you sit on the edge of your bed and look out the small window next to you. The snow continues to fall heavily, obscuring any vision you have of the road leading away from the house.

On Saturday morning, the snow has stopped, and you find yourself hopeful that the road will clear up. You bring Tom’s breakfast to his room and quickly don a thick coat, so you can take a stroll outside to check the state of the road. It is still blocked, very much so. Disappointed, you slowly walk back towards the house to clean Tom’s room. The house is dark inside, the kind of winter gloom that makes the hairs on your arm stand and the warmth in your heart disappear.

Your feet seem to drag itself across the carpeted floor of Tom’s room, the broom in your hand weakly sweeping at invisible dust. It is simply one of those days in which you cannot make yourself work. This winter day isn’t one of those magical ones – there’s a feeling of menace looming in the air, as if everyone is going to be trapped in the mansion forever. Tom walks into his room as you are wiping the tabletops idly.

“Are you bored of your job, (y/n)?” Tom asks, his tone playful.

You begin wiping with more determination, shaking your head surely. “No, sir, I’m very happy with my job!” 

“Then why do you look like you are about to die?” Tom chuckles.

You put down the rag in your hand and your hands on your hips. “Well, sir, it’s just… what with the storm and the road blockage… I just don’t really feel like… being up,” you explain lamely.

Tom chuckles, tracing the grain of wood on the table with his fingers. “Would you like to do something besides cleaning then?”

You stand up straight in excitement. “Yes! Of course,” you nod enthusiastically.

“Well I was planning on sorting out some of the books in the library. If you would like, you could join me,” Tom offers.

You nod in agreement, hurriedly gathering your cleaning supplies so you can put them away as soon as possible. Tom seems to be amused watching your frantic movements, assuring you that “this is not a time sensitive offer you know”. Your employer seems to be in a particularly lighthearted mood today, definitely the polar opposite of everyone else in the house. 

Ten minutes later, you find yourself finally in the library, ready to sort books with the unusually happy Tom. Perhaps he would tell you more about himself; perhaps he would remain as secretive and vague as ever. 

Large stacks of books sit in the middle of the library’s sitting area, gathering dust. You assume this must be the books Tom recently read and had procrastinated on returning, eventually forgetting where they all came from. Tom begins by telling you about each section of the library – there was law, fiction, science, botany, astronomy, anthropology, history (divided into eras of course), how-to books, as well as those sorted into language categories. Tom is an amazingly well read man, claiming to read at least a book a day if he has the time.

As Tom sorts out the books into the categories, you wander around the library, getting acquainted with where each section is, so that you can quickly place the books back in their shelves. The library consists of two floors, the second one merely a sort of balcony lining the perimeter of the room. You assume the second floor is fiction, since the bottom one seems to be filled with informational books. Bored with the dust-covered scientific tomes, you wander upstairs, using the creaky wooden staircase. You are right; works of fiction from various origins line the shelves, the dust not as thick here as downstairs.

A line of wooden stools and a potted plant blocks off a section of the top floor. The obstacles don’t seem to be placed there on purpose, so you push the stools aside and enter the closed off area. The books all look to be the same here, just slightly more disheveled. On further observation however, you notice that none of the spines have titles or authors on them. They are all blank, as if Tom had placed a jacket over the covers. You pull out a nondescript black volume from the shelf and look at it carefully. Dust had not settled on this book yet, or most of the books in this section if anything. You peer downstairs to see Tom engrossed in his sorting, so you assume he wouldn’t notice you reading.

The first page is a paragraph written in Latin, a sort of introduction. The pages are torn on its edges and yellowed with age. You turn the crisp page carefully, afraid the whole book will fall apart if you don’t. The image on the next page almost causes you to drop the fragile book. It is a diagram of a sort of symbol, with a diagram of a man being speared in front of demonic creatures. What is this?! You quickly rifle through the rest of the book, seeing more horrifying images, one page in particular has a young woman being burned, while witnesses seem to chant around her. There are instructions on most of the pages, even though you can’t read Latin, the format it is written in allows you to guess what it is. You see images of crosses and Biblical reference scattered in the book. Is this a Pagan ritual book? Is it… No… it can’t be black magic.

You suddenly realize that Tom could come up here at any moment, so you quickly place the book back in the shelf and creep downstairs. Tom is still sorting, more like re-reading one of the books now. You sit on the floor beside him, pretending to focus on the books in front of you. 

“Enjoyed the tour?” Tom asks, amused at your flushed cheeks from exertion.

“Yes, definitely!” you reply without missing a beat. 

“Good. It’s my personal pride and joy you see,” Tom mutters, not paying attention to you anymore.

All right, so he did not notice you had been up there. This time, you are going to keep it a secret until you can return and gather more information. You won’t make the same mistake as the Isabelle incident again – Tom must not suspect a thing.

* * *

Being a maid has its perks. Mainly, you can enter any room in the mansion with the excuse of cleaning up. You did not have to ask permission to dust the books in the library, however you had that excuse ready in case Tom gets suspicious. Your heart is beating out of your chest as you ascend the stairs and return to the small corner. The library is almost pitch black, save for the candle you brought in with you.  The flickering light illuminates the rows of title-less books on the shelf, too many of them to count. If all of them has the same content as the first one, you have no idea what you are going to do.

Carefully, you choose a smaller book from the bottom shelf. It’s leather bound and dustier than the rest. The pages are annotated on the sides, presumably by Tom. Thankfully, this one is in English, so you carefully skim the book to know what all this is really about. You notice mentions of ‘offerings’, ‘summoning’ and ‘magic’. Instructions on ‘rituals’ and ‘spells’ turn your blood cold. Pinned to the back of the book is a stack of notes and diagrams by Tom. There are amendments to instructions in the book (so he has tried it!) and on the very bottom of the stack of paper, there is a thick folded one.

With trembling hands, you open the folded piece of paper and hold it close to the candlelight. It is an illustration of a woman, hog-tied, blood pouring out of large slits in her skin. You read the note under it:

_Tonight went better than I thought it would. The sacrifice was a little hard to follow, but something definitely happened in the forest. I do not know what it was, perhaps it was just the howling of the wind, but I felt His presence. I know I am close, so I must keep practicing._

_Note: make sure to gag the victim next time._

You gasp audibly. Who is ‘His’ and who is this ‘victim’? You very nearly set the paper ablaze in your shock. Folding the paper and shoving it neatly into the book, you decide you had enough to read for tonight. The night is chilly and you are only wearing your thin cotton dress. The candle has burned nearly to a stump, and you wouldn’t risk not having light in the library. You can hear your heart beating loudly in your chest, your vision blurring in anxiety and fear. 

As you exit the library, you remember what Tom said about being accused of various crimes by Gregory. So there is truth to all this! Could this have something to do with the disappearing maids? Are they the victims? What exactly is Tom trying to accomplish… You very nearly sprinted to your quarters, locking yourself in when you get there. You curl up on the bed, shielding yourself with blankets, as if that would keep evil spirits away. The howling wind and the restless snow beats at your small window, the moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls in your room.

Unlike the Isabelle case, you cannot let this go. You know this will kill you if you don’t find the truth, and soon. Tom cannot know you are on to him, and the only people that could possibly help you are Gregory and Isabelle. But how would you get to them? You decide, with conviction that you are going to get to the bottom of this, even if it kills you (or at least before Tom does).


	8. Looking Through Broken Lenses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for not updating! I was away on vacation and now I promise to make it up to you guys <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter, I think it's getting pretty intense.

_“It is certain that the inanimate objects by which you are surrounded have a direct action on the brain”_

\- Jules Verne

 

If your time in Tom’s mansion has seemed to be a series of unfortunate events and bad timing, today is not one of those days. Tom has never left the mansion for longer than a day during your time here, but today he has announced that he will be away for a week on a business trip to Paris. You appear indifferent at the news, but inside you are filled with glee. Finally you don’t have to feel as if your heart will burst out of your chest whenever you are in the library. 

Tom leaves that night and you find yourself anxious to wait until the next morning to look at the books again. You could go tonight, but your experience a few nights ago made you weary of spirits that may or may not be in the rows of shelves. With Tom gone, you really have little to no duties at all. Cleaning is a sort of initiative around the house, unless Tom instructs the servants to clean a specific area, which is rare. 

As soon as you get up the next morning, you rush to dress and practically run to the library. Your feet take you instinctively to the shelves behind the stools and potted plant. As per usual you take out a series of books and begin rifling through them, now with pen, paper and ink in hand to take notes. Copying down certain paragraphs and sloppily redrawing diagrams, you jump at the sound of any movement in the vast room. Sometimes the light curtains drawn in the mornings would flutter in the wind, causing you to think a spirit has joined you.

Several hours pass by, and you are on the verge of a mental breakdown. You now fully understand that Tom is:

  1.      Dabbling in black magic
  2.      Attempting to summon the devil or some other ancient spirits
  3.      Can read any language in existence
  4.      Has killed at least one woman
  5.      That woman is probably the maid you replaced



Understanding this, you realize you have no idea how to proceed from this point. Do you flee the mansion and cause suspicion to arise? Of course, you could have a perfectly decent excuse such as being too tired for the job or missing your home too much. However, you feel a strong obligation to look deeper, and perhaps… convict Tom of his supposed crimes. If you leave, then more maids would be brought in, all of them naïve and unassuming. They would certainly fall prey to Tom’s wickedness.

It is at this point that the reason you are chosen to be a maid clicks in your brain. You are young, unfamiliar with the big city or him, desperate to find a job and come from a poor family. You are the perfect candidate for a simple maid, one who does her job well without asking questions. Unfortunately for him, you are just a little less naïve than all the previous maids. Wait. Tom did not just kill _one_ woman; he has killed every single maid he’s ever employed. There just wasn’t any written evidence for it.

You realize the only person that would have knowledge on this matter would be Mary. Quickly, you pack up your belongings and return the books in an orderly fashion. The kitchen is empty that morning, due to the lack of Tom. Mary is sitting at the back of the kitchen, nursing a brandy.

“Oh, (y/n),” Mary nervously smiles when she realizes you can see her drinking in plain daylight. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” you return her smile, pulling up a chair next to her. 

“What can I do for you dear?” the older woman kindly asks.

“Have all the maids who disappeared done so in the same strange way Anna did?” You decide there is no need to dilly dally, you must know right now.

Mary looks taken aback. “What’s with you and this maid business huh? I thought I told you not to keep pushing it,” she chastises.

“I just… Mary please, just answer the question,” you beg.

Mary sighs dramatically. “Yes. They have. Look lassie, I know what you’re trying to do. You think there’s more to the story than meets the eye, but there really isn’t. They’ve all been fired by Mr. Hiddleston and that’s it”. 

“Oh,” you lower your head in contemplation and curse Mary for being so naïve about all this.

You sit in silence, waiting for Mary to break it. She doesn’t, so the two of you simply sit in the kitchen awkwardly, listening to pots and pans clanging. She pours herself another glass of brandy and averts her eyes from yours. In the awkward silence, you have the chance to observe Mary. You never really did this previously, since all your encounters were during work. She is wearing a simple yellow dress with a white apron, her hair isn’t pulled up as usual, and a thick velvet choker decorates her pale neck. She never leaves without her choker on, in fact you think she sleeps and bathes with it.

As the morning turns into noon, the sun is causing beads of perspiration to form on Mary’s temples. She has forgotten you are there at this point, since you took it upon yourself to do something productive in the kitchen. In the heat, Mary nonchalantly pulls at her hair to create a messy up-do. You stare at her doing this for a few minutes, the repetitive motion seeming to entrance you. Suddenly, you see it. A large scar on the back of her neck, usually obscured by the choker, but now moved because of Mary’s attempt at hair tying. The scar seems to extend to the front of her neck, but you can’t be sure. You could ask her about it, but considering she has tried to cover it with so much effort, you realize it wouldn’t be very polite. 

The scar is an ugly one. It’s a thick and uneven line that’s slightly raised above the skin. You deduce that it’s definitely a knife scar, based on the precision of the cut. Who would do something-

Tom.

You nearly jump in shock at the realization and dash out of the kitchen. You recall the scattered instructions and diagrams you saw in the books, of people being drained of their blood with slits in their necks. In your room, you lay out the notes you took down in the library and think about the possibility that Mary was a victim too. Is this why she’s always so evasive when asked about Tom? Why is she still alive then? No other maid has survived, or at least stayed to bear evidence. Of course, if she did survive, then Tom wouldn’t want her leaving the mansion to spill his secret. So, back to why did Mary survive?

You rifle through your notes, looking for the little instructions you could find in English on how to offer a human sacrifice. Most of it is just instructions on chants and when to do the sacrifice, as opposed to actually doing the sacrifice itself. Then you remember the small book with annotations that you saw the first night at the library. That must be the only clue as to who the victims were and perhaps why Mary survived.

The small leather-bound book is still in the same place you found it in. Realizing that Tom is away for the week, you take the book back to your room with you. There isn’t any harm in reading it more carefully in private, where it’s less likely someone would barge in on you. 

You sit in your room, checking and rechecking to make sure the door is locked. You feel the thudding of your heart in your chest, as you start reading from the first page. Skipping over the ones that don’t require sacrifices, you stop to read annotations on the ones that do. Some of them require animal sacrifices, and includes diagrams. There are only two spells that require a human sacrifice. One of them is missing half of its contents, seeming to have been ripped out in a hurry.

You decide to just read the still complete one, struggling to understand some of the Latin phrases peppered throughout. You notice that there are warnings placed before every instruction, as if the author of the book did not want the reader to actually follow through. The writing style of the book is also oddly like a historical one, as opposed to a procedural one. Apparently, this spell is to ensure prosperity to its caster, ‘good fortune and endless pleasures’ shall be granted. There is a note after the instructions that tell the caster to do this every year in order to ensure the effects lasted.

The final paragraph before the actual instruction starts outlines the specifications of the human sacrifice to be used in this ancient ritual. It is to be a young woman, unblemished, undefiled and untarnished. You wonder for a moment about what this means. Oh… so a virgin girl then?

The rest of the spell does not give you insight into anything, and there are barely any annotations on the page. Some words are underlined, circled or crossed out, but other than that there are only four notes on the sides of the pages:

_“30 September, 1851”, “30 September 1853”, “30 September 1854”, “30 September 1856”_

What happened in 1852? Did he not do the sacrifice then? Also, 30 September 1856 coincides perfectly with Anna’s disappearance and your arrival. If your hypothesis is correct, then all these sacrifices are Tom’s personal maids who have disappeared so quickly and mysteriously. Mary says there has been three during her time here, and seeing as these sacrifices happen annually, she must have arrived in 1852. A wild thought enters your mind. What if Mary was the sacrifice of 1852? She survived that and Tom has kept her all these years. But wouldn’t Tom have had to sacrifice someone else in order to fulfill his annual bond to whatever spirit this is directed?

Who died in 1852? Mary must not have included her for the total amount of missing maids because she knows the circumstances were different. Maybe no one was sacrificed that year? You jot all this in your notes and hide the book and notes in a box under your bed. No one should be able to suspect anything’s in there, and you wouldn’t even let anyone come into your room in the first place.

You blow out the candles on the bedside table and settle into an uneasy sleep. A few hours into the night, your body is violently shaken awake by a dark figure looming above you.


	9. Isabelle Hiddleston

_“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”_

\- Arthur Conan Doyle

  

Your eyes snap wide open in horror, your heart racing so fast you could have died. 

“Where is it you bitch?” the dark figure yells at you.

It’s Mary.

You are so dumbfounded that you cannot answer her, and you suppose you shouldn’t be expected to, seeing as you have just been awakened so rudely. Mary keeps shaking you looking around the room panicked, tossing the sheets off your body.

“Where is what?” you finally shout back.

“The book! I know you took it. No one else would even think about reading it,” Mary’s panting now, you can see sweat dripping down her temples in the moonlight.

You have no idea what to do right now. You could tell her the truth and have it over with, but risk her knowing you’re in on the secret. Mary seems to be desperate and absolutely terrified, so she might actually need the book more than you do. Suddenly, the woman on top of you pulls out a short knife and holds it against your neck.

“Give it to me now or I will not hesitate to use this,” Mary threatens, her eyes ablaze with determination.

That’s it; you can’t hold this off any longer. You roll off the bed and reach under it for the box. At least you still have your notes, and you are going to return it anyway, so this should be all right. But wait, this might be your only chance to know what’s happening.

“Put the knife down and I’ll give you the book,” you instruct Mary. Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you could snatch it from her and threaten her to tell you the truth. 

Mary rolls her eyes and grips the knife tighter. “Not a chance in hell,” she sneers.

You look at the book in your hands and without thinking any further, you open it to the page with the human sacrifice spell. Mary’s eyes widens in horror, seeing your fingers play at the top of the seam. 

“I will tear it out if you don’t put the knife down,” you warn her.

Mary lunges at you, attempting to take the book away, but you are faster. She finally relents, placing the knife on the bed carefully. “Give me the book,” Mary’s voice is low and dangerous.

You slowly close the leather bound volume and walk towards her. In the blink of an eye, you reach for the knife and hold it against her neck. Mary attempts to push you away but you back her into a wall and toss the book as far away as possible. If there is a moment in which someone would not hesitate to remove you from earth, this would be it. Mary is absolutely livid. Her eyes bore into yours and you can feel her fists clenching tightly.

“Tell me why you need the book,” you whisper close to her face.

“I need to take it away from here”.

“Where?” you push the knife closer against her throat. 

Mary swallows and clenches her jaw. “To the authorities,” she finally answers.

“Who? No one would believe you”.

“Isabelle and Gregory would. They’re the only ones who know, and I’ve got to do it now, Mr. Hiddleston is never away”.

“Take me with you,” you reply, without thinking about it.

“What, no!” Mary looks at you incredulously. 

“Please Mary, you know I’m the only one who knows about this. Give me a chance to help you please,” you beg, attempting to appeal to her empathy.

“Why should I help you? No one was ever there to save me when he attacked me. Why do you deserve better than all those girls who’ve died every year?” Mary asks, disbelief coloring her voice.

“Because… you know that it’s wrong, and it should stop”. You cannot believe Mary is actually this spiteful and unsympathetic. Yes she was a victim, but the fact that she’s trying to report him is a sign that she knows it’s wrong. Why do you deserve to be sacrificed to a demon – no one deserves it. 

Mary doesn’t reply. She just stares at your knife wielding hand, as if she could move it with her mind power.

“Why are you still alive?” you suddenly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

The thing you least expect happens – tears begin rolling down Mary’s cheeks. She sniffles and tries to hide her crying by blinking away the droplets, but to no avail. “I should have died like all the rest. I don’t deserve to live lassie,” Mary chokes out. You wait for her to continue on her own. “I’m sure you’ve read the book… it calls for a virgin girl as the sacrifice… well I’m not,” Mary explains, her head hung low in shame.

You gasp audibly but quickly cover your mouth to stop yourself. “You’re not?” you ask, as if the answer wasn’t just mentioned. Mary shakes her head. “Mr. Hiddleston rightfully assumed I was like all the naïve young maids he employed, for I too came from the countryside. He didn’t know however that I lost my innocence when I was thirteen”.

You can tell that Mary doesn’t want to delve into this any further. “It wasn’t my choice! I was taken by force by the local innkeeper!” Mary suddenly shouted, her eyes wide in horror. You gasp once again and lower the knife from her throat. Not knowing what else to do, you give her a hug and let her cry into your shoulder. When Mary is finally done sobbing, she pulls away from you and wipes her nose messily. “No one died that year, I know you were wondering,” Mary smiles. 

“But doesn’t he need to do it every year or the effects wear out?”

“That’s right, and he blames Isabelle and Gregory catching on to his antics to that one year of not performing the ritual”.

“How do Isabelle and Gregory know?”

“Gregory works for the Metropolitan Police and is a private investigator in his own time. Isabelle is Tom’s sister,” Mary explains.

“Has Isabelle always known?” memories of Tom explaining the Isabelle incident floods your brain.

“I don’t know… I just know that that year Mr. Hiddleston barely ate, slept or worked. He was filled with worry, and I know that it was my fault they knew,” Mary almost looks guilty about this. 

“How was it your fault?”

“The police found traces of blood at the scene because Mr. Hiddleston fled so quickly after realizing the ritual failed. I don’t know if he usually cleans up, but I think he does, because no one has actually convicted him to this point. He was so alarmed that the sacrifice failed, not knowing if he should kill me anyway or what”. 

“How did you not die from your injuries though? Your throat was slit yes?”

Mary chuckles. “You are very curious and thorough my dear. The ritual involves a non fatal cut to the throat to let out blood, and once the ritual is complete, the victim is killed with a deeper cut”.

“Why didn’t you leave after that?”

“I think it’s obvious isn’t it? Mr. Hiddleston wouldn’t let me leave because of the potential evidence. Aside from that, I didn’t really want to leave. I know it sounds terrible – but I have nowhere to go. Ever since my parents found out the innkeeper raped me, they shunned me, and when Mr. Hiddleston employed me, I finally had somewhere to call home. As long as I behaved, Mr. Hiddleston is always good to me (y/n), that’s why I’ve never really held a grudge against him”.

You nod in understanding. This is a lot to take in in one go… on one hand you are horrified that Mary is still here, but on the other hand you could understand. Mary takes your hand in hers and smiles at you warmly. “I think I’ve misjudged you. Let’s go to Isabelle’s together tomorrow. I should think it would be less frightening to leave the mansion with a friend”.

You feel so touched by the fact that Mary finally called you her friend. “Yes, thank you for the chance,” you smile eagerly, covering her hand with both of yours.

* * *

Leaving the mansion unquestioned is easy enough, since as maids, you and Mary had a plethora of possible tasks outside. You decide the excuse would be leaving to go to the market, since that would give the two of you enough time to take horses to the city and meet Isabelle. The plan on what to do once you get to the city is unclear, you would probably just knock on Gregory’s door and hope for the best.

The ride to London is terrible. Snow covers the ground and flurries around you, creating a thick veil that obscures your vision. When you finally see the familiar sight of smog filled London, you feel a relief you never thought you’d feel upon seeing the dreary city. Mary had found Isabelle’s address from a letter returned from her.

She knocks on the large black doors and waits for a maid to open them. You feel your heart beating fast, your hands wrapped around the book in your coat. When a maid finally opens the doors, she looks puzzled at the guests.

“Are you here for Mr. Tull?” the old maid inquires, bored.

“Mrs. Tull actually,” Mary confidently replies. “Tell her we’re here on emergency business – it’s related to Mr. Hiddleston”.

The maid nods, escorting the two of you inside so she could close the door to block out the snow outside. As you sit in the waiting area, you suddenly realize that you have no idea what would become of you and Mary if Isabelle believes you. Would Tom be imprisoned and killed? What if she doesn’t believe you? Would she tell Tom about your betrayal – he’d kill the two of you for sure.

The maid returns to the waiting area to inform the two of you that Mrs. Tull will be out shortly and you are to wait here for her. Finally, Isabelle descends from the large staircase, wearing an emerald silk dress and covered in pearls. She seems surprised at your presence, but guides you and Mary to the drawing room regardless.

“What do you two ladies need from me?” Isabelle asks, pouring three cups of tea. Her voice is smooth, even and strangely sensual.

Mary looks at you, and you take out the book and your notes to show it to Isabelle. The woman in front of you traces her long pale fingers on the spine of the book, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. She opens the book and skims through the pages, as you had done a few nights ago. After a few agonizing minutes of silence, filled with the rifling of paper, she sets the book and notes down and sighs deeply.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Isabelle asks, very quietly. You shake your head in response.

“The fact that you came to me shows that the two of you know that Gregory and I are aware of this. In fact, I’m sure most of our social circle knows we are on to something regarding Tom,” Isabelle mutters, eyes closed, rubbing her temples.

The pearl-covered woman suddenly snaps her eyes open. A smile slowly spreads across her face as she looks at Mary head on. “You were one of the unfortunate ones weren’t you?”

Mary swallows, looking at you for approval before nodding. “Remove the choker dear. Don’t worry, I know,” Isabelle’s smooth voice could compel any human being to do anything.

Mary unties the velvet from around her neck slowly, self-conscious about anyone seeing the ugly scar. Isabelle’s face is controlled and devoid of any emotion, except a slight amusement. She assesses the knife wound spanning across the middle of Mary’s slender neck.

“I always knew he would get caught someday,” Isabelle muses, taking a sip of her tea.

“How long have you known?” you inquire, leaning forward in your seat.

Isabelle stares at the ceiling, her face becoming more amused as she thinks about her brother. “Forever I suppose. He’s always been strange and reclusive. I’d like to think I was his first victim, albeit I never received the special treatment of being sacrificed to a demon god,” Isabelle chuckles darkly. 

Mary shifts uncomfortably in her seat, the lightness of Isabelle’s response discomforts her, and you to an extent. Isabelle does nothing for a while, smiling to herself as she takes periodic sips of tea. Apathy is probably the reaction you least expected from this meeting. You finally reach to the teacup and sip at the lukewarm liquid. It smells spicy and minty.

“Delicious isn't it? Tom bought it for me specially from India…” Isabelle smiles dazedly, the thought comforting her.

More silence follows, Mary is swallowing nervously every few seconds now. The maid comes in with tiny cakes, jam and cream much to Isabelle’s delight. She whispers something in the maid’s ear about Gregory and the maid shakes her head in response.

If Tom is strange in an off-putting way, his sister is equally odd. There’s something… abnormal about her countenance, her languid demeanor and lack of reaction to her brother having killed people makes you intensely uncomfortable. She lies back on the Cleopatra couch and takes a dark curl in her fingers.

You look down at the beautifully shaped pastries in front of you, wondering if this is what purgatory feels like.

Suddenly, Isabelle turns her head to look at you, with a warm and excited smile. 

“So, you’re next then?” her cheery voice rings in your mind like church bells.

This is not purgatory, no, this might just be Hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely LOVE Isabelle!


	10. Thomas William Hiddleston

_“Life is the act of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises”_

\- Samuel Butler

  

You do not answer her, in fact it seems like the universe is holding its breath to not answer her. Instead, you give a meek laugh to politely respond, to which she smiles at you and shakes her head. Isabelle places her teacup on the polished table and takes your hand in hers.

“You might not be… you never know,” Isabelle whispers.

“But he’s done it every year! Except Mary’s of course,” you exclaim, suddenly panicked.

“No he hasn’t,” Isabelle states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yes he has!” you insist.

Isabelle lets go of your hand and picks up the book again. She skillfully flips to the page with dates and hands it back to you, pointing to the list. “See? He skips Mary’s year, but also last year, 1855”.

You take the book from the woman’s frail hands and hold it close to your eyes. This cannot be! How could you have missed this important detail? Why has Mary not said anything about it? Speaking of which, you turn to look at Mary, who is now a few shades paler. 

“Mary, what happened in 1855?” you demand, staring at the sweating woman next to you.

“I- I’m afraid, this is where I must draw the line lassie,” Mary stutters. She takes your hand in hers and squeezes it tightly. “Please do not misunderstand me, I would tell you, but I owe my life and safety to Mr. Hiddleston, and while a lot of people know about his dark practices, only I know about the events of 1855,” Mary pleads, looking at you earnestly. 

You nod in understanding. Surely Mary wouldn’t withhold a secret if it isn’t absolutely necessary to keep quiet about it. To your surprise, you hear Isabelle giggle.

“Oh Tom is so strange isn’t he. I’m so happy I moved out of that mansion, but sometimes… sometimes I sort of miss him,” Isabelle remarks, a giddy smile on her face.

“Isabelle, what did you mean when you said you were his first victim?” you ask, knowing you probably have nothing to lose.

“Ooh! I’ve never talked about this with anyone actually. Since you ladies have a special knowledge of Tom anyway, let me show you some things from our childhood”. Isabelle stands and offers you and Mary her hands to help you stand. The two of you follow Isabelle down a well-lit hall filled with portrait paintings until you reach a small library. 

“This is my personal collection. Gregory doesn’t want me mixing my memorabilia with the academic volumes,” Isabelle explains, looking around to find what she’s looking for.

“You know, I’ve been so dreadfully bored these past few months. Gregory has been working an awful lot, and I haven’t anyone to talk to. My lady friends are all so boring with their gossip, and I know they secretly judge my brother. I suppose it is my fault that they know about this in the first place, but Gregory was the one who accidentally spilled half-truths about your case,” Isabelle turns to smile at Mary.

“Wouldn’t Tom object to having his life shared with his housemaids?” you inquire, confused by Isabelle’s overtly friendly nature.

“No! Not at all! He won’t know anyway. It’s not like I’m sharing some dark, hidden secrets… just his boyhood and my personal stories with him,” Isabelle chirps. She squeals an “aha!” when she finds the book she’s looking for, pulling it out of the shelf.

“Sit, sit!” Isabelle pats the plush armchairs in the middle of the room. She opens the heavy tome to the beginning and lays it on the coffee table in the middle. There’s a sketch of a young boy sitting on a large leather armchair. You assume the boy is Tom. He looks as unreadable and unemotional as he usually is, seeming to stare straight at you from the portrait. The longer you look at the fading picture, the more disconcerted you are, as if the young Tom is accusing of prying too much.

Isabelle flips to another page, a portrait of her and Tom in a garden somewhere. “This is the mansion garden!” Isabelle quips, pointing at the rows of flowers. Mary nods in understanding, seeming less into this than you are. 

“Oh you wanted to know why I was his first victim?” Isabelle suddenly asks, closing the book. She stands and rummages in the back of the shelves for a small wooden box. The dark-haired woman places the box in front of you and opens it. You gasp audibly at the contents inside. There’s a white garment with large, dark stains on it. Isabelle gently takes the small dress out of the box and hands it to you.

You awkwardly run your hands over the stained fabric and look at her quizzically. “Tom tried to kill me when we I was ten,” Isabelle explains, her eyes looking away from you. 

You gasp again, observing the evidence more closely. “Why?” you whisper.

“He said he wanted to see what would happen. If he would feel bad about it,” Isabelle smiles darkly. “It’s fine, I forgave him and he never tried it again. Tom’s always been a peculiar one. I would find dead cats and dogs in his room sometimes. The stench would permeate the entire upper floor… it was awful. I had to sneak in and throw them away – if he found out, he would scratch me and drag me by my hair downstairs,” Isabelle rubs her scalp, remembering the feeling. 

You don’t know how to react to this, so you simply stay quiet, waiting for her to continue. “Our parents were always away a lot, so my only friend was Tom and the housemaids. They all steered clear of the little master, knowing his track record of aggression,” Isabelle chuckles.

A few minutes of silence follows before Isabelle says, “oh! I remember one Christmas party, when Harry, one of our cousins came over and Tom nearly drowned him. He said it was because Harry provoked him, and I definitely could believe that. He was one ill-mannered boy-” 

“How are you so… nonchalant about all this?” you interrupt, unable to contain your curiosity any more. 

Isabelle stares at you, dumbfounded before bursting into laughter. The tinkling sound of her laugh startles Mary out of her reverie and eases your tension. “Well, why not? Everyone is so drab and sad all the time these days. I refuse to let my strange childhood hold me back. I know my reactions are unconventional, and that’s why I don’t have a lot of friends. You have to understand that Tom wasn’t all bad as a child… we played together and he braided my hair sometimes. He just… he just had some bad habits that’s all…” Isabelle’s smile falters and she looks away sadly.

“I see,” you lamely reply.

Isabelle turns to look at you again, this time assessing your features carefully. “You look like her you know,” she muses, dreamily.

“Like who?” 

“Alice,” Isabelle answers, her tone seeming like she’s going to continue. You realize this is just the way she talks, she would often stop and you simply have to wait for her to finish her train of thought. 

“She was his… first love perhaps. I don’t really know actually, I’m not sure if Tom could feel affection for anyone beside myself, but he was very fond of her. You have her hair… and eyes…” Isabelle runs her fingers through your hair and caresses your face gently. “Oh they were always talking together, about God knows what… reading…”

“What happened to her?” you wonder. 

“Oh she died of a cold a year later. Tom was fifteen. He was devastated… never really had any friends after that… the recluse you know him to be, well I think he’s like that because of Alice, he never really recovered from it,” Isabelle sadly muses.

You manage a small “oh” in response and look down at your lap, feeling terrible about Tom and Isabelle’s life. 

“I didn’t mean to make you upset (y/n), please don’t worry about it, we’re both adults now,” Isabelle smiles. “Maybe he took you in because you reminded him of Alice”. 

Well that kind of makes you feel… strange. Was it supposed to be a compliment? 

“I don’t want to die Isabelle,” you frankly tell her.

“Do you plan on running away?” 

Honestly, the thought never seriously came to your mind. You always assumed danger isn’t at your doorstep and that this is a sort of different world to the reality you’re living in. Before you could answer, Isabelle interrupts your thoughts, “Well don’t bother, you can’t”. 

You look at her with disbelief. “Why not?”

“Tom wouldn’t risk it. Even if he thinks you don’t know anything… you’re pretty much bound for life to this job. He’s incredibly possessive you know”.

“So what do I do?”

“Hmm….” Isabelle looks to be deep in thought. “You could appeal to him? I don’t think it would work, but it’s certainly worth a try… Maybe you could play on the whole ‘I look like the only person you’ve ever loved’ thing,” she chuckles.

You don’t laugh in response, too nervous now that the reality of your situation has sunken in.

“Why are you here anyway? Where is Tom?” Isabelle asks.

“Oh he’s away on a business trip,” Mary explains.

Isabelle looks skeptical. “Well you better go home soon before the other workers get suspicious”.

You look at the clock on the mantel, noticing it has been six hours since you’ve left. Mary stands and helps you up, guiding you out of the room. Isabelle trails behind the two of you, quickly leading you to the front door. “You ladies can find your way back, yes?” Isabelle happily asks.

Mary nods in response, taking your horses from the stable boy who kept them in the back of the house. With a final wave of goodbye and thank you, the two of you ride away back to the mansion.

“Isabelle’s strange isn’t she?” you casually ask Mary as you dismount the horse.

“Yes, I agree. You know I really thought she would be intrigued by the book,” she replies, guiding the horse back to the stables.

“Hah, I know,” you laugh. Your hands pat the pocket of your coat where you put the book and your notes.

Except, it’s not there.

“Mary! Do you have the book?” you shout after her.

Mary turns around abruptly, panic coloring her features. “No? I thought you had it?” 

You quickly check your entire coat and shake your head in response. “We’ve got to return and get it before Tom returns”.

Mary shakes her head. “It’s already dark out, we can’t ride to town again. We must wait until tomorrow”.

Well you do have half a week left to collect the book from Isabelle, who probably will store it safely for you. Still, a part of you is anxious about what might happen if Isabelle lets the wrong eyes look at the documents. 

You enter the house, Mary trailing behind and make your way to the kitchen. Another kitchen maid is waiting there, busily preparing a stew in the large pot. Her eyes light up upon your arrival. She wipes her calloused hands on her apron and hastily drags you to where she was standing previously. 

“Oh thank god you’re here, Mr. Hiddleston needs his dinner”.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabelle is so cute I swear. Anyway, I'm so sorry for all the cliffhanger at the end of chapters, they're just super fun.


	11. The Business Trip Cut Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I watched Crimson Peak last night, and let me just tell all of you - this fic is going to be NOTHING like the movie. The location and time frame isn't even the same oh lord. There's not going to be the same plot/conflict/characters and you are not going to be like Edith. No ghosts will appear and the house isn't going to play such a big role in the story. I'm sorry if you were expecting a Crimson Peak story, but I promise this won't be any less interesting (hopefully). To anyone who hasn't watched it, I would recommend it, Guillermo did an amazing job with the set and Tom is beautiful in the movie. :)

_“Ignorance is not innocence but sin”_  

\- Robert Browning

 

There is a certain level of panic, in which everything seems to come crashing down, in which one feels such solitude and peace as opposed to panic and fear. This is what you feel right now. Mindlessly, you prepare Tom’s supper and take it up to his room, knowing every step could be your last in this house. Surely the universe is plotting against you, and despite its many efforts to stop you from prying even further, you still do – and now the cold end is coming for you.

Tom is sitting on his worktable, still fully dressed in his travelling garb. He smiles at you when you enter, wordlessly continuing to write.

“How was your trip, Tom?” you ask, too anxious to stay quiet.

“It was all right, thanks,” he replies without looking up at you.

“Why the sudden return? I thought you were leaving for a week?”

Tom chuckles. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you and come back early. I know everyone is dying for me to leave so they could drink in plain daylight,” Tom jokes.

Your heart skips a beat, remembering how that was exactly what Mary did in his absence. You laugh nervously. “I don’t drink unfortunately,” you admit shyly. 

Tom puts down his pen and looks up at you seriously. His blue eyes genuinely concerned for your sake. He stands and picks up a decanter filled with dark crimson wine, pouring two glasses. The man offers you one, to which you immediately refuse. “It’s improper I think, for a young woman to indulge in such things…” 

Tom rolls his eyes so dramatically that you fear his eyeballs would dislodge. He takes your hand in his and places it around the stem of the glass. “Just try it, maybe you’ll like it,” Tom smiles, urging you to feel more comfortable.

Seeing there isn’t really a way out, you take the glass from him and take the tiniest sip. You recoil at the bitter taste; promptly handing the crystal glass back to him, vowing you will never drink the vile liquid again. Tom chuckles good-naturedly, drinking his share of the wine in a few large gulps. 

“I envy you, I can’t remember the last time I had been repulsed by alcohol,” Tom looks at your still-full glass before drinking that, too. “It’s a gift from the heavens as far as I’m concerned”.

“I thought you don’t believe in God,” you quip playfully.

Tom places the glasses back on the table and smiles at you. “Yes, but sometimes something so divine comes along, that I simply cannot let it be a creation of man”.

There’s a lull in the conversation, which you take as your cue to leave the room. Tom senses your hesitation and breaks the silence.

“You were wondering why I left my trip early?” he asks, leaning against his table, crossing his ankles and arms. The casualness of his posture makes him look intimidating yet intimate at the same time. You nod in response. 

“Well, you see I found out the man I’m supposed to be meeting has moved to Birmingham. I’m afraid my business trip was quite useless,” Tom explains, fiddling with a small wooden sculpture on his desk. At the mention of Birmingham, you feel yourself get excited to hear more, perhaps he’s planning a visit there soon.

“I know you’re from around Birmingham,” Tom chuckles, seeing the light in your eyes. “I suppose the trip wasn’t completely useless, I spent many hours leisurely touring Paris, which is quite awful in my opinion. I did get these though,” Tom reaches around to open a desk drawer, where he takes out an ornately decorated red ribbon and a small book. “I know you like to keep your hair up when working around the house, so I thought this would come in handy”. Tom motions for you to turn around. He stands up straight and takes your messy ponytail in his hands, combing it gently with his fingers. With expertly precision, he ties the ribbon over the unsightly twine holding your hair together, creating a lovely large bow. Tom observes his masterpiece for a few seconds before handing you two small mirrors. He waits patiently for you to hold one up in front of you and one behind you, so you could see his handiwork.

“It’s beautiful, thank you Tom. I really love it,” you smile, grateful at the small token of appreciation.

“No, I think _you_ are what makes it beautiful,” Tom muses, taking the mirrors back from you and storing them.

You blush at the compliment, lowering your gaze so as to not make it obvious that you’re flustered.

“Oh yes, the book,” Tom says after a few moments deep in thought. He takes the small purple book and hands it to you. You open it carefully, noticing that all the pages are blank. Tom sees your confusion and quickly explains, “It’s a journal. I find that when I’m anxious or thinking deeply about something, it always helps to write. I feel like you would need it”.

You still don’t really understand why you, a maid would need a journal, but you suppose it’s a gift nonetheless. “I don’t have a pen…” you shyly remind him.

“Ah of course, how could I be so inconsiderate,” Tom reaches to the desk drawer and takes out a pot of ink and a pen. “This should be enough for a while. If you need more, feel free to ask,” he smiles warmly, handing you the stationery.

Once again, you rifle through the pages of the book, wondering what sort of ideas he expects you to fill these with. “It’s beautiful isn’t it, I found it in an antique store. They say it’s from the mid 1700s,” Tom remarks. You feel terrible for not appreciating the little book more, but you honestly have no idea why he would spend his money on this for you.

“Anyway, so I have to go to Birmingham in a few days. I was wondering if you’d like to join me. You could visit your family if you’d like?” Tom suggests, drawing random patterns on the surface of his table with his fingertips. 

You nearly gasp in happiness. “Yes! I would love to, thank you. I’ve been missing them terribly…”

“Excellent. Pack a week’s worth of clothes, I should like to see the countryside after my meetings,” Tom smiles warmly at you. The fact that he is interested in where you grew up seems unreal to you, adding to a list of why Mr. Hiddleston is always unpredictable.

“Why do you hate Paris?” you find yourself asking suddenly.

Tom looks taken aback at the sudden question. He looks down at his shoes and knits his eyebrows in thought. He opens and closes his mouth, as if to say something but decides against it. You decide to put him out of his misery, “If you don’t want to tell me it’s all right, I completely understand”.

You did not mean to make it sound passive aggressive, but evidently that’s the tone Tom perceived from your statement. He looks back up at you, leaning back on the table again. “No, no, it’s just… something I haven’t thought about for a very long time”. 

He rubs his chin in thought, wondering how to phrase what he’s about to say in a vague, yet complete way. “There was this… friend I had, she was my best friend as a child. She’s always wanted to go to Paris, and she told me when we’re all grown up, we could go together. Well she died a year after I knew her. I never went to Paris, because I feel like… I couldn’t go without her…” Tom looks away contemplatively. 

This must be Alice, you thought. “Oh, I see,” is all you could manage in response. You’re not sure whether or not he would confide in you, or this is all there is. In a way, Isabelle and Tom are very much alike, in that sometimes you think the conversation is over, but it’s really not.

“God, I haven’t _really_ thought about her in ages. I mean she still comes to mind every single day, but I never… I forgot how much…”

You cock your head to the side, urging him to continue.

“How much I… love her I suppose,” Tom finally finishes, the faintest blush on his cheeks.

“I never pinned you to be the type to have a childhood sweetheart,” you joke, hoping to lighten the mood.

Tom does not laugh back. “Strange how things from your childhood really stays with you doesn’t it… Children are so naïve yet the things they experience, they never really go away. It’s almost like a cruel joke of existence. How could it be that the time during which you understand least shapes you the most? How terrible!”

“I think it’s nice that a lot of what shapes us comes from our childhood. Adults are so skeptical and easily discouraged. God knows how many experiences we would actually have if our childhoods didn’t exist,” you reply.

“Ha, that is assuming you had a great childhood,” Tom muses. 

Right. Why did you say that? All right, just wait for him to continue and stay silent.

“You know what’s peculiar, and I’ve never really noticed this before. Maybe I have and I just didn’t let myself acknowledge it,” Tom looks at you intriguingly.

“Yes?” 

“You look a lot like Alice… my childhood friend I mean”. Tom says this with such a detached tone that it doesn’t seem like a compliment or an attempt at flirtation. It is simply an observation. You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and smile politely.

The man in front of you continues to stare, narrowing his eyes sometimes when zooming in on certain features of your face. “Alice…” he whispers softly. You inwardly squirm under Tom’s calculating gaze, wondering what is going through his mind right now. The silence in the room is probably the most awkward you’ve endured during your time with Tom, and there has been many many awkward silences.

“Alice…” Tom whispers again, now taking a step closer to you. You want to step back or move away, but you find your feet glued nervously on the ground. He reaches up and caresses your cheek with his fingers. Your heart is beating out of your chest, he’s moving closer, and his eyes are glazed over. 

“Alice…” Tom whispers yet again, as he leans his head closer towards yours. You swallow nervously, realizing he’s probably going to kiss you. Reflexively, you lick your lips, wondering if the gesture would entice him even more. You’re not sure if you mind being kissed, but it’s more on the wanting than rejecting side. 

This is it you think, Tom is moving so slowly but his lips are almost on yours. You can feel his warm breath against your skin. The moment is so strangely intimate yet off putting, realizing that he’s lost in memories of his dead friend. Suddenly, Tom lets go of your face and steps back. Shaking his head as if to get rid of what just happened.

“You’re not Alice, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, that was very improper of me,” Tom quickly mutters, his eyes not meeting yours.

“I- It’s fine, Tom. Really, I understand,” you kindly reply. Smiling to let him know you’re not offended by what he just tried to do.

“No, you really don’t. You’re excused, thank you for the dinner (y/n)”. Tom’s tone is so cold now; it’s perhaps the rudest he’s ever sounded. Tom isn’t a rude or mean person, sometimes he’s just not very attuned to what the situation calls for. But this time, you’re sure he knows exactly what he said.


	12. The Importance of Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, in case anyone's obsessed with accuracy like I am, I've created a timeline for you to accompany your reading with. This should put into context how much time has elapsed over the course of the story so far. I will update the timeline periodically when it gets confusing, but this should last several chapters ahead. By the way, if two dates are joined with an & that means the chapter spans over two days.

_ _

 

 _“_ _A smile abroad is often a scowl at home_ _”_  

\- Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

 **1857**

Perhaps this is a symbolic thing, coinciding a new realization of what your life has become with a new year. Perhaps nothing is symbolic, and it simply is. Either way, you feel awful after what happened last night, wondering why you keep pushing your luck. Okay, it is definitely not your fault that Tom had the mood swing that he did, so why are you blaming yourself? You suppose you could just leave the room whenever you finish a task, instead of staying to indulge in an awkward and oftentimes offensive conversation. 

In two days you are leaving with Tom for Birmingham, which is the last thing you want to do with him at the moment. Tom is known for his quick change in temper, so it is very likely he has put last night’s events behind him. 

You wake up this morning, feeling sad that nothing special happened to commemorate the New Year. It’s just another day serving Tom’s breakfast and cleaning the house minimally. You decide to put your effort into packing, making sure you’ve also packed things Tom might need. There are some things you are definitely looking forward to giving to your parents and brothers. Money is definitely one thing, but over the course of your employment you’ve collected small trinkets such as jewelry laying around the house, unwanted silverware, old stationery and some dried plants from around the estate. 

* * *

 

The carriage taking you to the train station arrives on the morning of January 3rd. Tom seems amicable today, smiling a genial “good morning” and helping you to step into the carriage. Riding to the train station didn’t take too long, much to your relief. The cramped space in the carriage means sometimes your knees would brush against his, and you would blush furiously.

Steam rising from the trains fills the entire station, and the sounds of people hurriedly boarding deafens your ears. You keep up with Tom’s pace, who is carrying all of your suitcases. You had insisted on helping him, but he politely refused, stating that it’s simply the gentleman’s duty. The two of you enter a passenger carriage lined with plush sofas and choose to sit in the very back. 

You decide to wait for him to begin the conversation, since you’re afraid if you opened your mouth, invasive questions would tumble out. Tom is writing in his small notebook, perhaps a schedule of some sort. He would look up at you periodically through his lashes, checking to see if you are all right. All right is not the way you would describe your current emotional state, it is more a mixture of boredom and agitation. Tom senses this of course, but he does not mention it or question you.

Finally, he stops writing and sighs, looking straight at you. “It’s Isabelle’s thirtieth birthday in eight days… we have to be back by then I suppose,” Tom muses.

“Oh yes, of course! Is she going to have a birthday party?” you ask, genuinely excited for it. You can’t believe Isabelle is thirty already! She looks to be in her early twenties…

“Yes, she always has parties. Lavish events. She’s the complete opposite of me I should think”.

“Really?” you have to stop yourself before giving away the fact that you met her. 

Tom chuckles to himself. “Isabelle has always been the more outgoing one. She’s not the best lady in English society, not even close, but she might as well be when compared to me,” Tom explains.

“Why is that?” you carefully ask, not wanting to breach sensitive territory. 

Tom’s fingers run against the sharp edge of his notebook’s pages. “Well I suppose… after my father took on a mistress when I was five, I was never really the same. Never really as cheerful or friendly…. Isabelle’s my half sister, from the mistress you see”.

“Oh… but you have come to accept her right?” 

Tom smiles knowingly. “Well, I suppose we have grown fond of each other. My parents died when I was ten on a business trip, so Isabelle and I relied on each other when our aunt took us under her wings”.

“Is the mansion your aunt’s?” you instinctively ask.

Tom cocks his head questioningly. “How do you know the mansion is our childhood home?”

You feel your heart beating violently in your chest. Oh my goodness, why did you just say that? Isabelle had shared that information with you, and it seems so irrelevant and normal that you did not even think of filtering it.

“I- uh, um, a lot of people continue to live in their childhood homes. I assumed Isabelle moved out to live with Gregory after she got married,” you quickly explain, feeling the warmth in your cheeks and the thumping of your heart.

“Ah I see. Yes the mansion was my aunt’s. I think I told you when we first met that she died when I was fifteen… the year Alice died,” Tom shares nonchalantly.

You suddenly remember the conversation you had with him that first day on the carriage. “Did you not say you grew up in the London slums?”

Tom looks out the window, smiling at a memory. “I suppose I cannot exactly say I grew up in the slums. Isabelle and I had the house to live in, but our aunt was never around to take care of us. She would spend all her money on gambling and travelling. Sometimes I would sneak into taverns and sit among the boisterous sailors and unruly men because I had nothing better to do lest I sit at home and starve with Isabelle. I eventually got a job at the tavern, washing mugs and scrubbing the floors. My aunt did not send us to school, so all Isabelle and I did was read on our own,” Tom shares, seeming nostalgically happy about the story.

So many people died in his lifetime! You take a moment to fully digest how sad his life actually is. For a moment, you almost want to excuse his crimes because he’s had ‘a hard life’. However, Tom doesn’t actually appear to be concerned for his past, and neither does Isabelle.

“Selfish aren’t they?” Tom asks, a snide smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, I suppose,” you mumble in reply.

“You suppose? Is it not so cruel to leave a small boy disappointed and his mother depressed? Is it not cruel to deprive a little girl and her brother to education and basic needs? While you spend your days in dark rooms, drunk, filled with people who care nothing about you?” Tom heatedly responds.

Oh no, here we go again, let’s hope you can tread upon these waters lightly this time. “It is selfish for sure, but perhaps each party had a reason as to why they needed to be selfish. Did you get to know your aunt well before she became your guardian?”

“I- well I- no I suppose. I told you she lived in an isolation of addiction, certainly no place for a child to be in. But why does it matter?” Tom states, annoyed. 

“It matters because… perhaps it’ll take the burden of hating them off your shoulders. Their own past doesn’t excuse their terrible behavior towards you, but perhaps it would give you some sort of closure. An explanation as to how it wasn’t yours or Isabelle’s fault that you had an unfortunate childhood”.

“Of course it’s not our fault we had an unfortunate childhood!” Tom exclaims, but quickly regaining his composure. “I see where you’re coming from, truly I do. And I myself have considered forgiveness, closure and rationalization. I find that none of these options truly worked to rid me of the anger I felt as a child. I’ve come to not care about it so much, for time seems to heal the best. It’s all right (y/n), I appreciate you trying to help,” Tom smiles.

There’s a lull in the conversation, filled with the shuffling of feet and the rustling of paper. “Do you get upset when I pry too much?” you shyly ask Tom, your voice barely above a whisper.

Tom looks incredulous at your question. “No of course not! I find our conversations to be incredibly stimulating. Well, at least a welcomed change from my solitude,” Tom explains quickly.

“Oh, well I’m glad to hear that. I was getting scared you’re growing tired of me. We seem to argue quite a lot”. 

“Argue? I never thought of our conversations as arguments. You’re simply a curious person, unwilling to accept things for what they are”.

You nod in understanding, effectively ending the conversation that sounds an awful lot like an argument when the subject matter is how you don’t argue. Staring out the window, you wonder how much time has elapsed. You find yourself jittery with anticipation of meeting your family  - a sort of excitement that washes out all other feelings of negativity. 

Tom looks up and down at you from his notebook. He seems to have something on his mind.

“What?” you finally ask him, wanting to end his misery. 

“Oh, forgive me,” Tom clears his throat. “I uh, wanted to know if you are upset by what I did that night… you know, the Alice incident”.

Upset… would not be the word to use in describing how you feel about the incident. “No, not at all,” you manage a forced smile.

“You have every right to be, by the way,” Tom assures you. 

“But why should I be? It’s not like you did anything but encounter a long lost memory”. 

“No… it’s, it’s improper for me to try and kiss you like that”.

“Like what?”

“Well, it’s improper for me as an employer to kiss you at all, but it just… well due to the circumstances, it made it even more an indiscretion”.

You chuckle good-naturedly at Tom’s flustered state. “It is all right, Tom, really,” you whisper kindly. At this point you’re leaning forward to create a rapport between the two of you, looking into Tom’s blue eyes earnestly. He takes your smaller hands in his and squeezes them. “Thank you. It’s been plaguing my mind if I’m to be honest,” Tom whispers back, an earnest smile coloring his features.

“Well it shouldn’t. It’s just a memory”.

Tom’s smile falls from his face. “No, that’s not what it’s about. I should like to kiss you properly,” Tom quietly whispers, his voice a low and enticing sound. 

A small gasp escapes your lips, and you swallow hard at the comment. You feel your palms getting clammier in anticipation of what would happen next.

“Perhaps at a better time and place,” Tom muses, searching your expression for reciprocation of his feelings.

“Now’s better…” you reply, staring deep into his eyes.

Tom licks his lips and stares at your slightly parted lips. Without another moment of hesitation, he leans forward and captures your lips in a warm and passionate kiss. His hands reach up to caress your cheeks, enveloping you in a sense that you’re in a dreamy cocoon. Tom leans forward from his seat, his body hovering over yours as you open your mouth to him. The feeling of his tongue exploring you feels amazing and dream-like, causing you to let out tiny moans of happiness. Tom notices your sounds of pleasure and deepens the kiss, biting and tugging at your bottom lip gently in his hunger for you. Your hands explore his firm and muscular back, moving up to tousle his hair and feel the warm tresses envelop your fingers. You feel breathless in the best way possible, lightheaded but still eager to trace your tongue over Tom’s.

When you finally break apart, Tom looks down at you with a hunger and fire in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. He looks about ready to consume you whole. The sound of heavy breathing fills the air around you, and you quickly realize this is a public setting. Your cheeks fill with blood in embarrassment, shying away from Tom’s domineering stance.

“Don’t worry about them, I’ve seen much worse on trains,” Tom whispers soothingly, brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. 

You giggle nervously, hoping no one did notice. Tom sits back down on his seat and stares at you, his hands playing with your fingers. What now?

“Was that the closure you needed?” you smile at him, wanting to lighten the mood.

“Hmm…” Tom looks out the window in thought. He brings your fingertips to his lips and kisses each one lovingly, sucking on some of them softly. “No, I think this won’t suffice,” he finally whispers in reply, looking up at you through his lashes. Something in his animalistic grin and husky voice makes you shiver in anticipation, or is it fright?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! I'm so excited to introduce more romance and Austen-esque angst so stay tuned folks!
> 
> By the way, I began another Tom/reader fic, but it's a modern mob AU. It's going to be more overtly explicit than this one, quickly, so if that's your jam go ahead and check it out and give me feedback pretty please :). Don't worry, I won't abandon this for that and vice versa.


	13. The Open Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon moi for the delayed update! This chapter took me a while to decide on, because now we're moving on to a new arc in the story. I just love it when historical events coincide perfectly with my stories - I hope you guys will enjoy the new mystery surrounding our lovely Mr. Hiddleston.

_“I don't know if I should care for a man who made life easy; I should want someone who made it interesting”_

\- Edith Wharton

 

Birmingham comes to view around half an hour after your ‘exchange’ with Tom. You refuse to refer to it as what it is, for whenever you think about it, your face turns bright crimson. The train pulls to a halt in the station and Tom quietly helps you with the suitcases. A carriage is waiting outside of the station, apparently sent by Tom’s business partner. That business partner, you find out is, one ‘Allonby’. No first name, no other information is given, Tom simply calls him Allonby. 

The two of you are staying in a beautifully decorated hotel in the middle of the city. The bellboy rushes to Tom and takes your bags, escorting the both of you to the reception area. A tall, jovial man stands behind the counter, ready to write your names in the guest book.

“Room for two?” the man asks, a bright smile decorating his features.

“Um, two rooms please,” Tom corrects him. 

“All right then!” the receptionist writes two names and two rooms on the guest book, before turning around to take the room keys.

A sort of uneasiness settles in your heart as you take your room key from the man. Perhaps it’s because of the weather? Or perhaps… no… you cannot admit it to yourself. Rooming with a man who is not your husband is terribly improper, perhaps one of the most looked down upon acts in society. Are you feeling possessive over him already? You do have a reason to be, however it is highly unlikely that he would even consider marrying you. No, you are simply his maid, and that’s the way it will continue to be. Any act of ‘romance’ or ‘affection’ he shows towards you is simply a byproduct of his unfulfilled desires. Tom could be longing for a different woman as he watches you with wanting, and he probably is.

* * *

 

Allonby is a greying man of about sixty, constantly wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. He bumbles into the drawing room you and Tom are sitting in, hurriedly apologizing for his lateness. You are not sure why you’ve been invited to this meeting, but you suspect it has something to do with the fact that Tom looks especially agitated.

“Do you have news for me?” Tom asks grimly.

“Have a drink, please,” Allonby pours two glasses of scotch, looking at you questioningly before setting the decanter down.

Tom does not touch his drink; instead he merely watches Allonby’s slow movement with impatience. “New, Allonby. I don’t have forever you know,” Tom coaxes.

“Ah yes, of course. I’m afraid… it’s complicated my dear friend. You know that the situation has been for a few years now, but I believe things are going to take a turn for the better soon!” Allonby smiles genially.

“Do you have your report ready?” Tom asks, undeterred by Allonby’s faux positivity.

“Here, this is all I have for you right now. It’s quite a lot I believe and if you have questions, please do not hesitate to write me,” Allonby mutters, handing over a thick envelope to Tom. Your employer observes the package for a few moments, weighing it in his hands before setting it down on the seat next to him.

“How are the… employees?” Tom asks, rather unclearly.

“Oh they’re fine sir. Rest assured, nothing can slow down our distribution. The ships are fine too, I just had one of them repaired – she’s good as new,” Allonby smiles confidently.

“Good. Does the report include the sales data?” 

“Oh yes, sir, I think you’ll find the data most comprehensive and complete for your reading pleasure. It has been quite a fine year for our business indeed”.

“Mm, I don’t doubt it my man,” Tom murmurs.

Allonby moves to refill his glass, but Tom quickly lays a hand atop the rim of the glass. “I think you’ve had quite enough,” he warns. Allonby sets the decanter and pales, “Yes, sir”.

Tom does not remove his hand from on top of the glass, instead he traces his index finger on the rim slowly. “You know what else I think you’ve had enough of?” Tom asks, cocking his head and raising a brow. Allonby quickly shakes his head and takes out his handkerchief to wipe away a bead of sweat. The dark haired man next to you continues to trace his finger on the rim, before abruptly stopping. Tom chuckles lowly, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Oh, Allonby,” Tom murmurs. Your eyes never leave his right hand hovering over the scotch glass, so when Tom suddenly stands and smashes his hand on the glass, you very nearly faint. The sound of glass shattering echoes around the wood-paneled room, blood from Tom’s hand slowly pouring onto the mahogany table.

Allonby stands in shock, laying a hand on his heart. He looks positively terrified, and anyone would be of course. Tom is clenching his jaw tightly, baring his teeth. He raises his bleeding hand to his face and seethes.

“Sir, please, let me get something to wrap your hand with,” Allonby stutters, making a move to leave the room.

Tom raises a commanding hand to stop him. “No, you stay here”. He stalks towards the cowering man against the wall, looking positively menacing. As if he did not just cut his hand open on a glass a few minutes ago, Tom grabs the front of Allonby’s shirt and pulls him close. “Listen here you rat, if I catch you stealing from me again, that glass will be your skull,” Tom whispers dangerously in Allonby’s pale, sweating face. 

Allonby lets out a squeak, nodding vigorously as an answer. Tom does not let go of Allonby’s shirt, now seeped with crimson. “Y-yes sir, I understand. Please, I beg your pardon sir, you know I have a wife and children to feed,” Allonby meekly begs. Tom finally releases the poor sod, leaving him to stagger against the wall in fear.

Your companion walks back towards the seating area, taking a tea towel to wrap his open wound in. “Men like you disgust me,” Tom scoffs, turning his head around slightly to sneer at Allonby.

“Come on (y/n), it’s time to leave,” Tom beckons for you to follow him out the door. 

“Tom, wait, your wound!” you call out to him.

“Never mind that, I’ve had worse,” Tom dismisses you with a wave of his healthy hand.

The two of you board your carriage and take off back to the hotel. Silence fills the small vehicle as your eyes observe the dark red tea towel wrapped around Tom’s right hand. You are almost positive that he might bleed to death if he does not get medical attention soon. He notices your staring of course and sighs dramatically.

“I’ll get it fixed up, don’t worry. I’ll call up a doctor to the hotel,” Tom explains. 

“Oh, yes that’s very good,” you quickly reply.

The ride back to your lodgings and up to the room feels like a lifetime, what with you worrying about Tom bleeding to death and what might have warranted such an outburst. You know this is definitely not the right time to ask, and since Tom has not offered an explanation or shown any signs of feeling like offering one, he probably is not in the mood to do so. A doctor is sent for soon after the both of you enter the hospital, the receptionist looking genuinely terrified at the sight of so much blood.

You wait for the doctor with Tom in his room, cleaning the excess blood down his arms and shirt with a wet cloth. He opts to eventually remove his white shirt, now a deep brown color. You help him pull off the garment, taking each arm out of the sleeves before placing the dirty laundry in the tub. The sight of your master, sweating slightly and covered in streaks of blood draws blood to your cheeks. You lower your eyes as you approach him, which in turn makes him laugh. 

“Don’t be so modest. We’re not doing anything improper,” Tom chuckles.

“I suppose,” you smile sheepishly. You continue to dab at the streaks of blood across his torso, careful to avoid skin on skin contact at all costs. Eventually you look up to see Tom staring intensely down on you. His left fingers hook under your chin and tip your head back.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to… lose my temper like that. I know it must have frightened you,” Tom whispers, his eyes searching your face for a reaction.

“It’s quite all right, I know you couldn’t help it,” you reply softly. Tom licks his lips slowly, his eyes half shut.

“Tom,” you whisper quietly, feeling your breath glide over his angled features. That is all the assurance he needs apparently, for Tom leans down and meets your lips with his. You feel giddy and lightweight as he kisses and explores your curves, the sound of your mouths exploring each others filling your ears. You make sure to avoid his injured hand as you move to straddle him, deepening the kiss. He moves his lips down to your neck, sucking lightly on spots that make you squirm. Tom stops at your collarbone, licking and nipping on it languidly.

“I want to mark you,” Tom whispers sensually, his fingers massaging your behind.

You moan in reply, wanting nothing more in the moment than just that. Unfortunately, a knock at the door stops his ministrations. “Fuck,” you hear Tom whisper under his breath.

“Doctor Allan for Mr. Hiddleston?” the man behind the door states.

“Yes, yes coming,” Tom walks towards the door, opening it with a polite smile.

“Oh, pardon me, Mrs-” Doctor Allan is cut off suddenly by Tom, “she’s my servant. Don’t mind her doctor, please”.

“Ah yes, I see,” Doctor Allan mutters in response. He sets down his supplies and sits beside Tom on the bed. “My, my, that is one wound you have!” The doctor exclaims.

Tom does not seem amused. “Please just fix it, I have a dinner reservation soon,” Tom impatiently urges.

“All right, all right, you’ll be fixed in no time,” Doctor Allan chuckles.

The doctor begins working on Tom’s hand, letting out a ‘tsk’ or ‘hmph’ occasionally as he observes the gaping, bleeding wound.

“Dinner reservation?” you mouth to Tom.

Tom, who looked sour at the doctor’s jovial countenance and questions smiles at you warmly and winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if I don't update as often this week and next week since I have a debate competition and several presentations happening :/


	14. The East Indies Conundrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick info for y'all - I haven't studied the opium wars nor the British-China trade in two years. I have researched for this story, but there may very well be some historical inaccuracies peppered throughout. This could be intentional for the sake of driving the plot, or unintentional. I would like to urge all of you to focus not on the facts but on the actual plot and characterization. The actual events I have included are plot devices to further characterize Tom, and I hope it's clear enough.

“ _A man lives by believing something: not by debating and arguing about many things”._

\- Thomas Carlyle

 

Dinner, you find out after Doctor Allan has gone is taking place in a secluded dining room in the center of Birmingham. The conversation revolves mainly about how Birmingham has evolved in the last decade and whether or not you enjoy living in close proximity to this town, as opposed to any other developed towns in England. The fact that you rarely go to the city during your time in the village makes you feel anxious to keep up with Tom’s questions.

After two glasses of wine, Tom’s of course, the conversation shifts to his business in town. Your palms feel clammy at the topic, fearing you might trigger another outburst.

“Would you mind explaining once more what you do for a living?” you shyly ask.

“Of course. Well I know a lot of people don’t understand very well _my_ particular career, and that’s simply because I don’t talk about it much. I trade with the East Indies, mainly with India and China. I know it’s a common thing to do nowadays and not at all something secret, but I feel that most people in English society views the business as something… vague and… far-off I suppose,” Tom explains.

“I see. And what do you trade?”

There is a pause, in which Tom nudges the food on his plate with a fork. “Opium, mainly”. 

“What? Like laudanum?” you carefully ask.

“Yes, like laudanum. It’s incredibly potent as medicine you know,” Tom states matter-of-factly.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the opium industry Tom. Is it particularly lucrative?”

Tom chuckles and leans back in his chair. “Lucrative would be a gross understatement my dear. England is practically clamoring for more of the stuff, women and children especially. The whole business is slightly problematic I suppose. There is conflict ensuing in China right now over the British monopoly, I believe something truly terrible will happen eventually”.

“Like what?” you ask, leaning forward in your chair. 

“I don’t know, but the British Empire cannot continue to anger the East. It is certainly our right to defend the monopoly and our right to trade freely, especially for opium… but I believe one day they will strike back, and perhaps then we will lose”.

“Do you truly believe that? The British army is undefeatable!” 

“History would say otherwise. It might take decades, even centuries, but I am confident that the tide will shift, and Britain might lose its power one day,” Tom muses.

“I suppose. Do you believe in conflict, Tom?”

Tom looks into the distance, contemplating his answer. “I would regard myself as a pacifist when it comes to politics. I suppose it is an incredibly naïve-sounding stance to take, but I would like to think, in an ideal world, there would be no need for saber rattling and provocation. We live in violent times, and it would do us all well if we do not keep fueling the fire.

“What about Allonby?” you finally work up the courage to ask.

Tom looks at his bandaged right hand. “Allonby has been my… colleague for several years now. He used to be a simple, hard-working chap. I wouldn’t have employed him if he weren’t. I found just a last week that he has been stealing from our revenue, upwards to even 20% of it! 

“What? That’s terrible!” you exclaim.

“I know. Poor chap has a family though, and I owe him one, so I suppose I’ll give him another chance. I doubt he’ll regain his integrity that bastard. It’s hard to keep track of sales, it’s distributed all over England and working with the Chinese in London could be especially tricky. This is what I need Allonby for,” Tom explains.

“What does Allonby do?”

“He manages day to day operations, keeps track of the dealers, and makes sure plenty of Brits are visiting opium dens”.

“What are opium dens?” you quietly ask.

“You could say it’s the epitome of the downfall of society. I’d like to look at it as a place for indulgence in the finer things in life,” Tom vaguely states.

“Do people consume opium for leisure then?”

“Oh of course. It’s highly addictive you know. I’m afraid soon the prudes of society will begin pushing back on its consumption. Actually, I _know_ they will eventually do so,” Tom sighs, closing his eyes. “I just hope something new to sell will appear once they begin protesting”. 

“Is laudanum dangerous?” you carefully ask, afraid of offending Tom. 

“If consumed in excess, yes, just like anything. I never take much of the stuff myself – I find it hampers productivity. I’m more an alcohol man myself,” Tom chuckles. 

“Do you ever feel guilty for selling it… if it has the potential of being fatal?”

Tom knits his eyebrows together. “Well no, ultimately it’s up to a person how much they would like to consume. I suppose it’s unfair since the public is mainly unaware of the potential harms that come with its consumption, but I could not be bothered as long as there is profit to be made”.

You gasp reflexively at his incredibly selfish answer.

“Oh no, no please do not misunderstand me,” Tom cuts off your disbelief. “If given another chance, perhaps I would be a lawyer or an honest doctor, but this is the life I’ve come to live. Isabelle and I know the meaning of hardship, since a very early age, and I would like to think it’s all right for me to enjoy the finer things in life as an adult”.

You nod. It does make sense you suppose, and who are you to judge how Tom earns his living – you’re just his housemaid.

“Why am I even sharing all this with you?” Tom shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t know, sir…” you honestly reply. 

“I suppose it’s just incredibly refreshing to talk to someone without many preconceived biases or notions of who I am. It’s as if I’m piecing myself together through you,” Tom muses.

You blush at the statement, it does sound like a compliment of sorts. “You know what, I think I’ve had quite enough of business. Tomorrow I should like to visit my workers, and perhaps on the day after tomorrow we could do something leisurely in town,” Tom suggests.

You nod enthusiastically at the suggestion, grateful to do something exciting for a change. “When are we going to visit my family?” you ask, in a tone that doesn’t seem nagging.

“Hmm… we could do so in two days then? If you would like?” 

“Yes! I would love that,” your eyes light up in joy. 

Tom smiles at your enthusiasm, “I look forward to it then”.

“What does Allonby owe you?” you ask, after wondering for a while why Tom doesn’t just get a new business partner. 

“Ah, observant aren’t you? That’s a story for another day I suppose. Let’s just say Allonby knows something about me that I would hate to be let out to the public,” Tom states, in a tone that effectively ends the conversation.

Is it possible that Allonby knows about Tom’s rituals? Is he also bound to him just like you and Mary are? You feel a sudden pang of pity for Allonby, but then quickly realize he is not an honest man. Perhaps Allonby was driven out of necessity to steal from Tom, for he probably has entered into an unfavorable contract.

The conversation shifts away from business and unsavory folk to speaking about English society. You find out that Tom has a love-hate relationship with most of his acquaintances, and that he is well aware that the women gossip profusely about him.

“Do your parents expect you to be married soon?” Tom asks nonchalantly.

You consider this question for a moment, do they though? If they did, you wouldn’t have been sent off to work in the city. “I suppose my parents want for me what any sensible parent would want for their young daughter, a good husband. However, seeing that they sent me to work in London, I’m not sure that marriage is still a priority. I’m more than happy to help provide for my parents and brothers instead of being a housewife and having children. Not that I don’t long for the latter, but working gives me a sense of purpose, and besides, no man in my village has really caught me eye”.

Tom takes in the information, nodding understandingly. “That’s a very noble thing to do. Considering you could be slaving away in a cotton mill right now, I would say the choice of being a wife in a village would have been a much simpler life”.

“But is this not more exciting? I mean of course working in a large city has its setbacks, but I find myself, for the most part, incredibly stimulated by the day to day activities in the house, especially when you are around,” you quickly explain. 

Tom smiles appreciatively. “Well I’m glad you enjoy my company, (y/n). I would hate to be a burden to your work”.

“Not at all! Trust me,” you smile genuinely.

You suddenly realize something. Are you actually more excited than afraid of the mystery surrounding Mr. Hiddleston? Are his dark habits and vague past a titillating thing for your mind? Is that why you haven’t made any attempts to escape him, despite knowing your life is potentially hanging by a thread. A very weak rationalization comes to mind, in which Tom doesn’t sacrifice anyone until September, as far as you know, which is quite a long way away. So this is it then? You’re just waiting for your turn, enjoying the ride while it lasts. 

But is it really as dangerous as it seems?  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to help you visualize just how loaded Tom is, laudanum was cheaper than alcohol back then. It also wasn't illegal to sell, so anyone could sell and buy it. There was criticism of course, so people weren't completely naive to its harms, and eventually they did protest the lack of restrictions in the trade. Also, it was a very commonly prescribed medicine to treat anything from coughs to diarrhoea.


	15. The Home Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... long update. I have changed the course of the story slightly and I'm very excited to see where this takes us <3 Rest assured this is a better fate for you than the previous plot I had planned.

_“I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity”_

\- Edgar Allan Poe

 

Two days later, as promised, you and Tom head to the Birmingham countryside. Your fingers fidget excitedly in your lap in anticipation of seeing your family again. This is the perfect time to visit your family, for you found out through their letters that your brothers are going to work in London soon. Poor boys, they will probably break their backs being an industrial slave. Perhaps Tom could provide them with employment… yes, that is actually a good idea.

“Tom, my three brothers are coming to London to work sometime soon,” you begin, too nervous to continue.

The man across you looks up, waiting.

“Well… I thought… perhaps…” you slowly try to explain.

“You want me to offer them employment,” Tom shuts his novel.

“Y-yes, if you are willing, that would be amazing!”

Tom stares out the carriage window, clucking his tongue in thought. “I suppose, I could use another stable boy. I’m afraid I can’t take in all three of them however”.

“Oh that’s fine Tom, just one job would be great,” you smile. Your mind begins to race, wondering whom you should offer the job to. Three of your brothers are roughly the same age, twelve, fourteen and fifteen. You instinctively know the brother you are going to choose is Albert, the youngest. He wouldn’t make it out there alone, and you owe it to him as his older sister to protect him from all the dangers of the world.

“I could send your brothers to a friend of mine. He always needs more staff for some reason,” Tom chuckles.

“I see. What would they do there?” 

“Hmm… perhaps cleaning, delivering things, manual labor… things of that nature,” Tom explains.

When the carriage finally comes to a halt in front of a small dirt path leading to a cottage, your heart nearly stopped. No one moved, but you hope Tom would initiate leaving the carriage. Eventually, he does. Stepping out, he holds your hand to help you down from the glossy black vehicle. 

“Are you excited to see your family?” Tom asks kindly.

“Y-yes of course! I could hardly wait,” you breathlessly reply.

“Then why are you rooted to the ground my dear,” Tom chuckles.

“Well I… I suppose I’m anxious. We have not seen each other in a while,” you quietly mutter.

“It’s fine, let’s go,” Tom takes your hand again and together you walk down the beaten path towards the simple house.

William, your fourteen-year-old brother presses his face against the dirty window, his youthful face breaking into a smile at the sight of you. He yells something to the family, presumably alerting them of your arrival. As you near the wooden doors worn by years of rain and wind, you can hear animated chatter inside and the hustle and bustle of the tiny kitchen. 

Tom carefully knocks on the door, keeping you close by his side. “Mother, father! I’m home,” you shout into the house. As if it wasn’t obvious that the entire family had their noses pressed against the door, it burst open and reveals five smiling faces.

Your father and mother embrace you warmly, peppering your face with kisses. The warm gesture forces you to let go of Tom’s hand, and he quietly slinks into the house, escorted by your brothers. “My dear, is this your kind employer that we’ve been hearing about?” your mother asks, eyeing the dark-haired man in your humble living room. You nod in response, shushing her lest Tom hears that you’ve been complimenting him behind his back. God know he probably doesn’t deserve half the things you said about him before you knew about his ‘little secrets’.

“Come, come, we must have lunch!” your mother exclaims, guiding Tom and you to the small family dining table. The additional guest makes the seating arrangement nearly impossible, leaving Tom to sit on a rickety wooden stool. Your family asks him about London life over lunch, how he came to meet you (which they know already of course), if he’s married, and eventually why he decided to spend his life alone.

“What church do you go to Mr. Hiddleston?” your father asks, chewing his food loudly. 

Tom looks noticeably uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. “I don’t sir. I’m not particularly religious I’m afraid,” Tom explains, looking your father dead in the eyes. 

Your father clears his throat and wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “But surely you let my little (y/n) go to church every week, yes?”

An awkward silence of a few long seconds ensues, in which you willed yourself to look away from Tom, lest it seems suspicious. “Of course sir. The employees are free to go to church whenever they would like during the weekends,” Tom smiles genially. Your father smiles, comforted by the lie. You realize at that moment that life is so incredibly different here than in London. Of course you had known this, but living with Tom for so long, surrounded by all the mysteries and intrigue, you had forgotten how simple life could be. Your father, allowing himself to be convinced by a lie to feel at peace, your mother, fretting about the goose not being cooked right. They must have spent a fortune on the meal, and you are sure Tom appreciates it, but they shouldn’t have.

“How about you, mother, father? What has been happening here since I’ve left? Surely there are things you’ve left out of the letters,” you laugh.

Your father begins recounting how the crops have been good the last few months, and several neighbors passed away. Albert could read now, simple things, but read nonetheless. Robert, the oldest of the three brothers has found a girl in the next village. He blushes furiously at the exposition and tells your mother to ‘stop it!’. You giggle and reply appropriately to everything they tell you about, trying not to show that you feel slightly bored by all the village anecdotes. But why? No, you cannot allow yourself to be this way! You had promised yourself, that no matter how long you spend apart from your family, that you would not forsake them. Your feigned interest in the conversation draws beads of sweat from your temple, your fingers fiddling the utensils in hand.

* * *

The next few days passes on the same way. Your family would wake you and Tom early, much to your discomfort. Even though it’s not much earlier than you would wake working for Tom, this seems more tedious. Your family had created a makeshift bed in the living room for Tom, which consists of a thin mattress, pillows and a worn quilt. He seems to be grateful nonetheless, despite the poor conditions.

The daily activities include tending the field, helping your mother package the vegetables to be sold in the market and devotionals at night. You find yourself dreading the devotions at night, even though it used to be your favorite time of day. This change in demeanor does not escape your father, who pulls you aside on the third night to ask what’s happening.

“My dear, what is troubling you?” your father asks, concern lacing his tone.

“Nothing, father. I’m just trying to readjust… it’s hard to change your mindset once you’ve left for so long,” you explain.

“But it’s only been half a year my dear. You’ve barely aged a year!”

“I know, father. I just… I need time,” you brush him off.

Your father obviously seems dissatisfied with the vague answer, but let you return to the devotion circle anyway. Tom seems to be handling the religious time better than you, sharing what knowledge he has on the Bible with the family. Your mother seems particularly impressed, forgetting constantly that he is not religious in any sense. Oh if only they knew. You had known Tom would be a hit with the family from that very first lunch. His seemingly cold countenance wore off the minute he stepped through the door, and he has been a lovely guest ever since. You almost detest him for his cheeriness, for now you are the one with a raincloud over your head.

After devotions, you excuse yourself from the family to go get some fresh air. The night is cool and just slightly windy, perfect for a stroll. You wrap a blanket around your frame as your feet pad along the familiar, worn path. The trees around the stable has always been a favorite spot of yours when you need time to yourself, so you head there absentmindedly. You feel awful for not enjoying the little time you have with your family, secretly wishing to go ‘home’. Perhaps people just change, and this is you evolving to be a better person. Everyone in your village is so naïve, not realizing that an entirely separate world full of excitement and worry exists outside of this agrarian bubble. 

Lost in your thoughts, you gasp feeling someone place a coat on your shoulders. “Here,” Tom whispers.

You smile at the gesture of kindness, “thank you”.   

Tom walks beside you, completely silent but not in a bad way. It feels right, him being here with you in the quiet little village near Birmingham at night. Who would have thought the two of you, people from completely different worlds would have crossed paths. It truly is fate that brought you together, whether for better or for worse.

“I know you haven’t been happy the last few days, I can tell,” Tom begins. 

“Tom…” 

Tom lays a comforting hand on your shoulder. “It’s all right, you don’t have to be ashamed for how you feel. It’s completely natural to feel out of place after being gone for a while. You need not feel ashamed for anything my dear,” Tom gently tells you.

You nod in understanding, knowing that he’s right. “I just… I don’t want my parents to think I’ve changed to prefer you over them. This is just not who I am you know,” you wipe a tear from your cheek.

Tom stops you by placing his hands on either side of your shoulders. “This is who you are now. If they don’t understand that, then they do not care for you. Your parents are good people, (y/n) and you are putting too much pressure on yourself. Have confidence that they’ll understand people change, and that they won’t love you any less”.

You nod once more, focusing your eyes on Tom’s stomach. He resumes walking, switching the conversation topic to that of the weather. He tells you that he’s fond of the countryside, that he could get used to this kind of living. Perhaps it was the other way around, Tom is always gloomy in the city, but he’s happy here because all this is unfamiliar to him. The opposite is true for you, and it’s normal. 

“Your father showed me his crops yesterday, they’re turning out marvelously. Makes me wonder if I could possibly tend to a farm myself,” Tom chuckles.

“You wouldn’t want that I think. It’s quite boring and tiring most of the time,” you nonchalantly reply.

“I suppose. But wouldn’t it be lovely to just escape the humdrum of city life… the terrible people around you, all the deceit and plotting… exchange it all for this,” Tom motions to the surrounding fields.

“Hmm… you could settle down with a wife and have children, grow old and die peacefully,” you half joke. 

Tom chuckles but stops abruptly. “Actually, that wouldn’t be half bad, don’t you think?” Tom looks at you, his face genuinely interested in what you think.

“Well…” you look down at the dirty path, wrapping your arms around yourself. “My entire life I’ve never been taught to want anything but that. But after I met you, well everything changed”.

“How so?” Tom cocks his head slightly.

“I… I started wanting more for myself. I needed more excitement in my life, and working for you allowed that for me”.

“Excitement? I should hardly think cleaning and cooking is very exciting,” Tom chuckles sarcastically.

“Yeah I suppose,” you chuckle in return, realizing he could never know you know about his secrets.

Tom bites his bottom lip in thought, gnawing at the soft flesh as his hands sink inside his pockets. “I wish I could stay here forever if I’m being honest,” Tom muses. 

“Mm. You only think that because this is all novel to you”. 

“You’re novel to me,” Tom mutters, looking at you. “I mean, I’ve always found those who grew up differently from me interesting, but you… you’re different”.

“In a good way?” you carefully ask.

Tom stops walking and faces you. He brushes a tendril of hair away from your face and strokes your cheek. “I haven’t decided,” he whispers, his voice deep and warm like a pool of honey. You swallow a lump in your throat, wondering if when he decides you’re ‘bad’ different he would kill you. Tom leans forward and closes the gap between your lips, holding your face close to his. The kiss is soft, tender and loving, everything you could possibly want from a lover. For a moment you could even fool yourself into thinking Tom loves you. You wrap your cold hands around Tom’s neck and deepen the kiss, feeling his curly locks under your fingertips.

Tom breaks the kiss but holds your face close to his, his blue eyes boring into yours. He’s searching for something that you can’t put your finger on. You want to kiss him again, this staring contest putting you on edge. 

“(y/n)…” Tom whispers ever so softly.

“Yes?” you breathe out.

“I…” Tom stops, his mouth opening and closing apprehensively. 

You look at him through your lashes, quietly urging him to continue.

“Marry me,” Tom finally whispers. His tone firm and his eyes lit with passion. 

Your heart skips a beat. The world seems to stop spinning and everything ceases to exist. Your mind has descended to a blank state, a sort of black hole filled with ringing and silence at the same time. Your eyes almost fail to see the man in front of you, just inches away from your face. Time stands still in that moment, a moment that could change everything for you, for him and perhaps for the entire world. That seems like a gross exaggeration, but something inside you knows that an avalanche is waiting to happen.

After a long pause, your eyes meet his again and your right hand reaches up to stroke his cheek. Tom looks at you with such an intensity that you fear you might melt into the earth right this second.

“I’m sorry… I can’t” you tell him, with a voice stronger than you thought you could possibly muster.

And with that, you take off, and run as fast as your feet can take you.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I genuinely love to hear what you guys think, and if you're enjoying this... well let me know :D


	16. What Is The Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have Spotify, this is the playlist I listened to as I wrote the first half of this chapter. Please listen to it to enhance the experience :) https://open.spotify.com/user/spotify_uk_/playlist/6y3CuT7MDDoPNXaD69frug

_“It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do”_

\- Jane Austen

 

Life hits you with the strangest of problems sometimes. Problems you would never have thought you’d encounter in a million years. You feel like you’re drowning, as if your feet are desperately kicking and finding solid ground, but only to feel more water below. The longer you run, the worse the stitches in your side feel, but this is truly a mind over body moment. Without realizing, tears are streaming down your cheeks, the cold air seeming to freeze them against your cheeks. ‘This isn’t happening to me’ you repeat to yourself, over and over again. Your heart aches realizing you left Tom in the field alone, perhaps feeling worse than you do. How could you tell him the truth? That you cannot marry a man with such a dark secret? Do you even love him? Would you marry him if you hadn’t known about his crimes? 

Do you love him? 

That it, isn’t it? the big question. Yes. Yes… Yes! Your heart seems to tell you. But how could you? Do you really know this man? This man who has treated you strangely from your first day, this man who you could never truly predict. Perhaps all this is why you find yourself falling for him. Tom is no ordinary man, and to tell the truth, you don’t want ordinary. Your mind suddenly pauses and realizes. Would he still sacrifice me if we were married? Is this my only chance of survival?

Even if he killed you anyway, you know deep inside you still want him. At least for now. How messed up is that, you ponder. Your feet halt on the path, the sound of your pants filling your ears. You can’t believe that at this moment, you literally have to choose a path. For the first time in a very long time, you cast your face to the Heavens and ask God what to do.

He doesn’t answer. But your heart does. 

And just like that, with the sounds of the world blocked, your mind racing with a billion thoughts, you turn around and take off in a sprint. Your face breaks out into a smile instinctively, shedding your worries.

With a blank mind and a rush of adrenaline, you close your eyes and just let your body travel down the path to Tom. You run, and run and keep running, until you slam against Tom. Your eyes shoot open and your jaw goes slack. Tom. He’s holding you in place, looking at you with concern. 

“My dear, are you all right?” He asks, genuinely concerned. His tone indicating no anger or resentment at all.

Your lips quiver and without warning, you burst into tears. Tom holds you against his chest, stroking your hair gently, not saying anything until the tears stop.  You sob and stammer out apologies, cut off explanations of why you ran, whispers of adoration and guilt. Tom holds you tighter against him, his eyes counting the stars above. He places a chaste kiss on your head and whispers “I love you”.

You believe him. Because you want to say it to him too, and so you do.

Finally, you pull away from his embrace and wipe away the tears staining your cheeks. “I want you. I’m so sorry. I panicked and I-”

Tom cuts you off with a passionate kiss. His hands instinctively holding your face close, fearing you’re going to leave again. Everything is so wrong, but perfect at the same time. Life couldn’t have been better than this right now. He whispers soothing “I love you’s” between breathless kisses. You cover his hands on your cheeks with yours; mouthing the three words back to him with a tenderness you cannot even fathom. You love him, truly you do.

Tom looks at you with loving eyes, his dark locks falling haphazardly from their place. “You don’t have to give me an answer right now. I want you to think about it,” Tom whispers quietly.

You look up at him, tears threatening to spill out of your (e/c) eyes again. “Thank you,” you reply, genuinely appreciative of his patience.

“I’ll wait for you, as long as I have to. God know I’ve waited my whole life already,” your lover slowly whispers, his voice soothing and smooth, turning your mind into a bed of roses.

“This is so surreal,” you laugh to yourself, twirling around in giddiness. “Is this all really real?”

Tom holds your arm to steady you, chuckling at your antics. “Yes, I can assure you this is all real,” he laughs.

You stop twirling and laughing, finally calming down enough to stand properly, still panting slightly. Looking at the man in front of you, everything starts clearing up in your mind. Wait, why did you come back? Right, because you want him.

Oh no, no, no, you can’t do this, he’s going to kill you and everyone else too. This is probably all a ploy to get you to trust him. How do you know he doesn’t do this with every one of his victims? Maybe they’ve all agreed to marry him, blind to all his indiscretions, but you’re not. You know the truth, and if you are to have another night of peaceful sleep, you need to tell him that you know everything.

“Tom…” you look at your shuffling feet, too afraid to look him in the eyes.

“Yes, my love?”

You take Tom’s hands in yours, squeezing them slowly. “I want you to know, that no matter what, I will stay and love you. I hope you will extend me the same courtesy”.

Tom’s expressions do not betray any sort of emotion, if he is feeling any. He squeezes your hands as well, “of course, trust me”.

* * *

 

The two of you make your way back to the house, eager to tell your parents of the news. Realizing everyone is already asleep when you return, you decide to sleep on the makeshift bed in the living room with Tom.

The morning sun dances on your eyelids, rousing you to wake. Tom’s heavy arm rests around your waist, holding you down protectively. You turn around to face him, stroking his smooth, pale skin that seems to glow in the light. “Morning,” you whisper softly. He groans and pulls you closer to him. You hear the pitter patter of feet coming out of the bedroom, causing you to sit up abruptly.

“(y/n)?” your mother calls out to you from the kitchen.

You scurry to the kitchen, putting on an apron on your way there.

“Where have you been all night?” your mother scolds, her hands on her hips.

“I returned home after you all slept. It’s fine mother,” you sharply reply.

Your mother continues to stare at you judgingly. “It’s improper you know, to be out with a man so late at night. Especially when the man is your employer. Perhaps being in London has changed you after all… And besides, we don’t really know who this ‘Mr. Hiddleston’ is. Probably some kind of shameless heathen,” your mother mutters the last part under her breath. 

You throw down the wooden spoon you’ve been holding on the counter. The sharp clattering sound startles your mother, causing her to jump a little. “Young lad-” your mother begins, only to be cut off by you.

“Look, mother, nothing happened last night, so if you would stop judging me and my decisions, believing I have become some kind of a sinner during my time in London, that would be very much appreciated. Tom has been nothing but kind to me, making me a better person that I have ever been here. I’m sorry if you and father cannot see that there is a life beyond the fields of Birmingham, but _I_ know there is more to life than all of this,” you bitterly expound.

“What exactly are you saying young lady?” your mother asks, disbelief coloring her tone.

“Maybe I’m saying I’m tired of pretending to enjoy all this,” you mutter, not looking at her.

“Go, then. I don’t need you to be here with a heavy heart. Take your Mr. Hiddleston with you and don’t return,” your mother whispers dangerously.

Your eyes snap back towards hers, and with a final “fine” you storm out of the kitchen and explain to Tom that you’re leaving, now. Before he could ask any questions, you pack Tom’s belonging and yours in the bedroom. Realizing the carriage won’t be here for a while if you call it now, you tell William and Robert to accompany Tom and you on horseback to Birmingham. They’re clueless of the exchange between you and your mother of course, so they excitedly agree to the trip to town. 

The ride was silent, with only William and Robert discussing what they would do in the city. Tom looks at you nervously occasionally, wondering why you are departing so suddenly. Deep inside you feel absolutely relieved that you turned back last night, because right now the only person you have is Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment! comment! :D it's really so good to hear from you xoxo


	17. Author's Notice

Hey guys! So a bunch of you have been asking me to update, and rest assured I do notice this. Let me just tell you guys what's been going on in my life that's been stopping me from updating :/ 

First of all, I really really want to update because I truly love this story and I have the entire plot laid out. So basically around January my life became insanely busy, I had a model congress to attend, a law competition, a debate competition to organize and now I have a boyfriend! I'm also in the diploma program of the IB highschool program, so I've been swamped with work from all sides. Writing this story takes a lot of time because a) the timeline requires a lot of planning, hence that picture of the timeline I included, b) it takes research to write historical fiction (even though some of it is maybe inaccurate). 

I haven't decided to permanently abandon this story, but it will take a while for me to update. I will try my best to do so during the summer, but I can't make any promises. I'm so sorry you guys, I know how annoying it is to be deep in a story and see that the author's stopped updating for a while. I hope ya'll are good and I'll see you soon hopefully :) 


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